Turning From True Beauty
by Phanatic01
Summary: There was no kiss that night below the Opéra, only a binding promise between two broken souls. Christine chose to spend a lifetime with Erik and must now get used to her confinement underground. She can only hope that she is strong enough to save them both, and to stop them from slipping deeper into the darker recesses of their minds. Leroux/Kay based. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I want to thank everyone who originally read/reviewed/favourited/followed this and a special thanks to PartyPenguina3, who was my beta for the majority of the original chapters, and to AliceHeart247, who was my beta for the revised chapters!**

 **Summary: There was no kiss that night below the Opéra, only a binding promise between two broken souls. Christine chose to spend a lifetime with Erik and now must get used to living with her confinement underground. Will she find that true beauty lies within and that love can be found in the darkest of places or will she find herself slipping deeper into the shadows of his domain? Leroux/Kay based.  
**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything to do with 'The Phantom of the Opera'.**

* * *

There was something highly unpleasant about her awakening.

Plagued by a darkness that had consumed her, Christine had dreamt a fiery penance that night. An array of twisted images from which she thought there was no escape. Fire and ash had filled her mind, an angry explosion of guilt and self-deprecation, and she had felt as though she was being torn from the inside. As though two shadows fought for the belittled parts of her.

A rawness now filled her throat after hours spent sobbing and her eyes throbbed from dried tears, yet she was still thankful for the unpleasant air which hit her face in a cold wash of reality.

Although her body ached in protest as she began to move about on the bed, she stretched her fingers out in front of her, the horrid crack of bones reaching her ears soon afterwards. It was then that she peered down and saw that she still wore her stained costume from the previous evening. A violent shudder ran through her at the sight of it. Her hands groped and prodded the dress with revulsion and found that the colourful fabric, which had seemed so tempting in the glow of footlights, now disgusted her. All of it disgusted her—the part she had played in her own deception.

Nothing would have pleased her more than to rid herself of the reminder of that betrayal, to tear away those clothed bonds from her flesh and burn them. She would laugh and then perhaps she would be able to forget—but forget she could not. The opera had merely been a prelude for the night's true performance and all agreed that she had played her role quite admirably. She had been the demure little soubrette, whose voice had risen in accumulation and in warning. It was true, she had tried to warn off the intruders with their guns poised to kill. She had tried to warn off the man, whose heart their barrels sought. But neither had listened and _he_ had come to her.

Her voice had been an irresistible draw for him and she too would have followed his voice without question. But that sweet interlude of reverie had passed her by and she had been quick to learn of its trickery. It was the voice she had once thought to have belonged to an angel. But reality had soon caught up with her, the foolish dreamer that she was, and had shaken her from that fantasy.

She had long since known of its less than heavenly origins...

" _Christine_ ," the mortal's voice had cried. " _I love you_!"

He had wept then and her heart had wept with him.

" _I would fall to my knees before you_ , _rip out my heart and offer it to you on a platter if I thought that you could love me_."

And they had wept together, both bewildered by his confession.

" _Stay with me_ ," he had murmured so softly. " _Stay and they shall all be set free_. _It is all I ask. Stay and be my wife_."

Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, Christine attempted to stand, the cold piercing her feet as they made contact with the ground. Her interest was piqued not by her surroundings, but by a sound that had begun to drift around the chamber, dancing on the air and tingling at her ears. It was a melody floating across the strings of a Stradivarius. The music breathed her in and compelled her to follow it, to find the instrument and its master. Christine could not deny her soul's yearnings and so she rose, walking towards the door to open it. Her fingers parted the curtains that shielded the threshold from view and she cautiously peered through the gap.

There, in the middle of the room, stood the creator of that wondrous music and the invader of her dreams. The fallen angel.

Christine's gaze fell upon those long fingers as they flew across the strings of the violin. She knew she would always be in awe over his ability to wield music as though it were an animal on a leash, wild but tamed. But still she feared the power behind that icy grip and how easily she lost herself to the notes and phrases that he formed.

With his back to her and his eyes closed, he did not even sense her slow approach. Her entire presence in his home, in fact, was unknown to him. Believing that she had run off with her lover, he was now helpless as to what to do. In despair, he had turned to music, for time and time again it had proved to be the one constant thing in his dreary life. He had hoped that it would help to drown out the last remnants of Christine's voice that still hissed and teased and toyed in his memory. _She must despise me_ , he thought, _and rightly so_. His actions had been those of a fool, a fool who had thought to have understood love. But how wrong he had been. The words of acceptance that had fallen from his beloved's mouth, her consent to be his wife, her sacrifice... it had all shattered what little dignity he had left and he had finally realised what it was to love another. That was why he had released her. That was why he had pushed his chance of false happiness away.

Standing in the sparse room, he now played his requiem, caring very little when the strings left cruel indents on the pads of his fingers.

"Erik?"

The violin let out a deafening screech upon hearing that voice again and after lowering the instrument to his side, he remained perfectly still.

"I thought you had left," he eventually managed to whisper, his heart thudding manically as he waited impatiently to her the siren speak once more.

Christine's eyes flickered between him and the open door to her bedchamber that tempted her into a speedy retreat. She refused. "No, I did not leave. I would not do that to you."

Grunting, Erik placed his violin back in the case atop the piano lid and readied himself as he listened to her footsteps crossing the floor towards him.

Christine froze as he turned around—the mask on his face was intrusive, black and garish, and it stared at her in all its lifeless glory. Although already sickly in appearance, she noted how much Erik had worsened overnight. His skin was an abnormal shade of white, almost grey at some angles, his lips unnaturally thin, and his eyes, being of the purest black, appeared merely as glints behind the mask.

"Did I wake you?" he asked finally, silently probing for answers.

"No," she answered.

Taking careful steps towards her, as if one false move would startle her and she would flee, Erik regarded her with curiosity. "Why are you here?"

Christine fiddled with the ring on her finger, inwardly wincing as it dug into her skin before placing her hands behind her back. "I made a promise."

His eyes closed as a memory flooded his mind in painful flashes. Tearful eyes, shaky fingertips holding a ring and a woman who showed him kindness even as her lover battled against torturous heat. "I released you from that promise."

"And yet I am still here," she murmured, looking at him with a blank expression. In fact, the more Erik studied her, the more he realised just how passively she was behaving. Whoever stood before him now was not the same woman who had bargained and defended the night before.

Christine, meanwhile, could now not stop her eyes from drifting towards the four steps that lead up to a bolted door. But as she looked at Erik and noted the way he shied away from her gaze, the weakness in his voice, it only made her pity him more. And pity him, she did. She even believed that she had cared for him once. Perhaps. But how could she think of that when she doted upon another man?

" _Raoul_."

Her hand flew over her mouth as soon as the name had left her lips, but it was too late. The word had already cut across Erik's chest like a knife, wounding his heart and bleeding it of its charity.

"You dare to speak his name?" he seethed, letting his anger take over as he glared at her, hands fisted at his sides.

The only thought that Christine could process at that moment was to run. She wanted to leave this place, wanted to run back to her sweet Raoul. She wanted him to hold her in his strong arms and comfort her and tell her that everything was going to be all right. But that was not possible. It was not to be. Frightened, Christine's gaze swiftly landed on the door again. It was so close and yet, with Erik between her and it, her chances of escaping were extremely slim.

" _Why_?" he bellowed suddenly, making her jump.

"I did not mean to say it," she squeaked, her attention snapping back to him.

"Are all women the same?" he pressed, his want for understanding driving his feet to move and his shoes to scuff along the ground. "You feed on the powerful until they are mere weaklings! You drain them and make them believe your foul and false words until they are completely at your mercy." His mouth hung open in pained disbelief as he closed the remaining space between them. "You have drained me by making me believe you," he whispered.

Affronted at how easily he had spat these accusations at her, she stared up at him defiantly. "I have done no such thing, Erik."

His eyes narrowed menacingly as he towered over her form. "Your words are poison to me."

"You cannot mean that, surely," she said, not knowing which of them she was trying to convince more.

"Why did you speak his name?" he repeated. "You promised to stay with me and all you can think about is returning to him." Her silence only fuelled his brewing anger. "Do you deny it?"

"I do not deny it," she began in a melancholy tone, knowing that he would be able to tell if she was lying. "It is true, I was thinking about him. But whatever you may believe, I do not intend on returning to him, not when I have promised you my hand."

"But you _were_ thinking of him?"

She nodded but her passive nature was now fading and in its place burned a growing vindication. "Pray, tell me, Erik," she hissed. "Why should I not think of him? Am I wrong to do so?"

Her words taunted him, challenged him to step out of line and though he found her spiteful, a small part of him wished for that spark within her to ignite and take over. The woman from last night had returned and here she was, accusative in all her splendour, cheeks flushed and eyes dark. His pride be damned! Let her yell at him, let her exude that suppressed but spirited fire at him!

While he did not want conflict and did not truly wish to argue with her, his contradictory comments seemed to blow on the embers of her soul, setting her alight with newfound energy and strength. A smile crept slowly onto his face as he boldly began their game. "Perhaps you should be the one to tell me," he spoke smoothly, his words a subtle snarl. "After all, you are the woman who pines after another man whilst she is betrothed to another."

His remark had the desired effect for she soon released a short exasperated groan. "You make it impossible for me to talk to you!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms up in vexation. "I cannot believe you would say something like that to me. Can you not understand how I must be feeling?"

"Oh, I am sure you are feeling nothing but contempt."

"If that is what you think then..." Her words gave way to her frustration and she turned her back on him, not wanting to meet his eyes. It was as if all her anger had ebbed away with a single exhale of breath. "I... I miss him, Erik. What you did to him was inexcusable and I will never forgive you. I want you to know that. But, I also want you to know that I intend to stay. Of course I was thinking of Raoul, and I will continue to do so, but how can I not? And not just him, Erik; I will think of others, too. I... I did not even get to say my farewells. Perhaps if I could just venture above ground for a little while..."

A grimace had reached Erik's face as he listened to her sad words and he did not fail to miss how her glorious voice had trembled in devotion at the mention of her lover. He despised himself for causing her grief, but what he despised more was the hopeless realisation that she would never grieve for him in that way, nor would her voice ever break at the prospect of losing him. Helpless, his hands slowly began to clench once more as he spat out a viscous, " _No._ "

"But I have a right!" she protested instantly, whirling back around. "You cannot bar me from my friends and relatives and you certainly cannot force me into a life of darkness forever! I want to do this, Erik. I _need_ to do this."

" _No_!"

Like a spectre, he moved quickly, his shoes barely making a sound as he glided over to Christine's retreating form. Her legs had not carried her very far before a skeletal hand had reached out and grabbed her, sending her tumbling back against a hard rippling of cotton and silk. Although she was thoroughly startled, she did not struggle, not even when Erik raised his hands to her shoulders, holding her tightly, his fingertips never straying past the thick cloth which covered her skin.

Erik fought to keep from shaking against her, his breath raspy and strained as he brought his masked face down to her ear. "You are mine," he whispered, and while his actions were threaded with a form of angry possessiveness, his words were almost despairing. "I will not let you leave me!" he cried. "You will not slip through my fingers... not again." Hs grips on her loosened then and he lifted his hands, leaving them to hover over her shoulders. "I would not dream of any other companion in the world but you, Christine."

Now free from his clutch, she remained rooted to the spot, twisting her head around instead to look into his eyes as though she were looking into his soul. Her deepest wish was to _know_ him, this enigma of a man, to understand him and the reasons behind his actions. He fascinated as much as he beguiled her and she gazed at the contrasts of his face; the softness of his eyes hidden behind the glaring black of his mask, and his pale mouth and quivering chin.

Hesitantly, she raised a hand to one of his covered cheeks, splaying her fingers over the shapely indents and watched as Erik closed his eyes and breathed in her light touch. Curiously, she gently stroked the mask, both disgusted and intrigued at how he leaned into her touch, as easily and intently as though it were his own skin.

Releasing a long exhale, she finally lowered her hand and stepped away from him, returning to her bedchamber without another word.

What little intimacy she had shared with Erik, she had found to be uncomfortable. He was so very unpredictable, not at all like Raoul. And upon reflection, she did most certainly did not regret saying his name, but oh, how she loathed the way Erik had reacted upon hearing it.

The more she thought of poor Raoul, the more she seemed to miss him. She longed to feel the softness of his hair again, the warmth of his eyes, the way his arms felt when he held her protectively, shielding her from the large and dreadful world.

But that was all at an end now, she thought. She had chosen to be Erik's living wife, but she had not thought about what it had meant to be a bride... to be _Erik's_ bride. She had not thought that she would spend the remainder of her days confined to the darkness with him. This man. This _liar_. He had once deceived her into thinking he was an angel and she had followed him, never caring about the consequences. But she had found out the truth about the world. She had learnt of its cruelties and of her own naivety.

Christine had grown up believing in fairy tales and although she was a young woman when they had met, she had still believed that Erik was just another fairy tale—a living legend. How foolish she must have seemed! Two years had passed since their first meeting and here she sat, in her mentor's home, shaking like the little girl she always knew she was on the inside.

Surveying the walls of her prison, she fought the urge to grab the pillow on the bed and scream into it until she exhausted herself. Candlelight was scarce in her chamber, the drapes around her bed were as dark as they were gloomy and she had no idea what time it was. How could one live like this?

In a flash she had buried her face into her hands, letting out woeful cries. How she missed Raoul and Mamma Valérius and Meg! Oh, her dear friends! What would they think of her now? What would they be told of her plight?

A series of sharp knocks at the door pulled her from her thoughts, but she did not move to answer it; she only wanted to be left alone. It was her want for his persistent knocking to cease that finally swayed her, however, and she rose from the bed as one would from the grave, walking over to the door to open it.

And there he was, her corpse-like husband to be, holding back one curtain in his hand as he hunched over himself. As her feet came into view, he slowly lifted his head and she tried her hardest to appear strong in his eyes, but it did not fool him for one moment. His stance immediately changed as he witnessed her distress, her red eyes, her wet cheeks. His posture slipped and his knees bent, and Christine stared as he dropped to the floor, suppressing the want to step away from him, for there were those pitiful eyes again, staring longingly up at her.

"Oh, Christine," he whispered, his head bowed as he grabbed the hem of her dress and brought it to his face. "Erik is so sorry," he sobbed into the cloth. "He has upset you. Forgive him. Oh, forgive him, please!"

As shocked as she was by his grovelling, she began to feel a burning desire to take him in her arms, to gently rock him back and forth, to tell him that all was forgiven. But she could not bring herself to show this type of affection towards him, not with Raoul still branding himself onto her mind.

Erik gazed at her brokenly, studying her unruly appearance and mumbling apologies before slowly rising and bowing to her. She watched him walk away from her and in the direction of the pianoforte.

Christine staggered back into her room, bewildered by his behaviour, and quietly closed the door behind her. She wrapped her arms around herself, knowing that it would be the only comfort that she would accept at the present, as she pressed her back to the wooden frame and slid down to the ground. Her tears began to fall again and she wept for herself and for Erik as an exquisite melody invaded her room and her senses.

An hour or so later, Erik's playing halted and she heard the unmistakable sound of his footsteps nearing her door. She tensed, not knowing what to expect, but as she listened she soon heard his footsteps pause before fading into a soft silence. Sniffing, she ran her fingers over her cheeks and turned to creak open the door.

Her eyes once again grew misty at what she saw. On the ground lay a beautiful, blood-red rose. She picked it up and raised it to her lips and nose, allowing the intoxicating aroma to afflict her already heightened sense. And as she sat in the doorway, caressing the petals of his frail apology and listening to that unearthly music, she breathed in a sad sigh. If this was to be her awakening, then so be it. She only prayed that she had enough strength for both of them to continue onwards.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite opposing minds, music had always been the substance, the connection, which had bound their souls together, and such a base, yet pure union could not be denied. It was the reason why neither could resist the other's call, drawing close like a doomed moth to a unforgiving flame. And it was the reason why Christine now stood by Erik's side, observing his hands on the keys of the pianoforte and the contrasts between ridged edges and pale skin.

"I have always imagined that one day I would see you grace the stage to this," he spoke, gently transitioning his melody into Bellini's _Casta Diva_. "I tried for many months to... _persuade_ those fools to allow another production of 'Norma'." His lips twitched into a grimace at the reminder of his failure. "I believed you ready for the role. Unfortunately, I was the only one who thought so. As I recall, those bumbling men deemed the opera too much of a risk for a secured run. The audiences would still behave with hostility towards it, they said." He scoffed. "It is as though they forgot that times have changed, and audiences along with it. Ha! As if they knew anything about music! They did not know true art, even if it were staring them in the face!" Taking his hands off the keys sharply, he stared up at Christine, his head slightly tilted to the side. "You do remember the words, do you not? Of course you do!"

His fingers returned to the keys and started to play from the beginning of the aria, and without a word of protest, Christine obeyed the yearnings of her heart. Two syllables had barely left her mouth when Erik slammed his hands down on the keys, producing a spitefully disjointed chord before he glared at her with an intensity that surprised even her. "You are not singing from your diaphragm!" he exclaimed. "Remember your breath support, Christine. This was a common occurrence when I first began teaching you, do you remember? I would have expected you to know better by now."

Dumbfounded, Christine looked down at her feet, instantly torn between arguing with him and walking away. Her teeth gritted together as she retorted, "I _was_ breathing correctly."

"No, you were sounding short of breath," he chided almost dismissively. "Now, straighten up, feet apart, arms by your sides and—"

" _Remember your breath support_ , _Christine_ ," she said, poorly mimicking his tone of voice as she raised her head stubbornly. The imitation earned her a glare and a short tempered nod, but it still gave her a small sense of satisfaction to know that she had irritated him. Her second attempt at the aria was as successful as the first, and soon it landed her in the familiar position of being silenced and chastised. Huffing at the sight of his frozen hands, she demanded to know what she had done wrong. "My breathing was adequate," she insisted, her patience thinning by the second. "I do not see what the problem is."

Initially ignoring her, Erik pinched the bridge of his masked nose and focused on suppressing his displeasure at her attitude. He did not understand this blatant disregard for her voice, for she had never been anything but diligent and devoted to her work in the past. Did she not see? Her voice was a gift. Unadulterated; pristine... and she was mistreating it—as if she actually wanted to abuse the only pure thing he had managed to give her.

"Where has this sudden anger come from?" he asked, trying to tear his mind away from his own thoughts.

"You think this is sudden?" she said in disbelief.

With a slow shake of his head, Erik lowered his hand to join the other which rested stiffly in his lap. "Then," he began slowly, "you are not denying that you are angry."

"Of course not!"

"So you _are_ capable of emoting!" he growled, suddenly playing the aria's soft introduction with more far more dissonance than before. "Would you be so kind as to lend the piece some of it?"

" _Oh_!" she exclaimed, chagrined at his outburst. How dare he be the one to accuse her of not showing any discernible emotion when she was not the one who wore a damnable mask. "This is absolutely ridiculous. I see no point in continuing with this." Turning on her heel, she set herself down on the settee and frowned at Erik from the other side of the room.

An awkwardness hung about the air, but when they met each other's gaze, the harshness in their eyes faded and their regret over what had just transpired loomed over them as heavily as the shadows that lurked in every corner.

"Our lessons never used to be so aggravating," Erik whispered, breaking away to stare down at the instrument beneath his hands, his mind clouded with nostalgia.

Christine's mind also carried her away to a simpler time, a happier time, and she found herself longing to return to it. "So much has changed since then. Everything is different now."

"Yes," he agreed sadly, idly playing a cadenza in minor. "Yes, it is."

As she listened, tense fingers curled around the edge of the seat beneath her. "When?" she asked in a sudden and perhaps misguided attempt to speak with him civilly, wanting for that distance between them to close and disperse.

"When what?" Erik murmured, deliberately not looking at her but altering his melody to suit her pianissimo voice.

"When did you try to arrange the production of 'Norma' for me?"

"I believe it was very early on in your tutelage," he replied without delay.

Christine could feel her jaw loosen and slack, leaving her mouth gaping. "Surely not," she said, a timid smile appearing and then disappearing on her lips. "How could you possibly have believed that I was ready so soon? The very idea is baffling."

"On the contrary, I suspected your potential from the first moment I heard you sing," he defended with gusto to his words. "I suppose I may have been a little hasty to deem your voice ready at such an early stage, but I could not help myself."

"Why did you?" she asked quietly, her attention drawing to his hands as they slowed to a stop.

He hesitated, staring down at the keys, and under the mask a frown began to form. "I took too much pride in your abilities," he admitted, "and in my accomplishment."

"But it was a miracle that I was even noticed at my age," she started, leaning forward with a feverish quest for knowledge prickling at her skin. "I was merely a child to them, Erik, not quite nineteen. I am not surprised the managers were not pulled in by such a dubious gamble."

A low chuckle resonated around the room before he raised his eyes to her, amusement glinting in those black orbs. "Modesty becomes you well."

Christine said nothing but returned his gaze, silently sharing in his praise and his pride, but it was not long before a low gurgle sounded from her stomach. Embarrassed, she immediately wrapped her arms around her abdomen.

Studying her hunched over body as if it were a foreign entity and, being slow and unsure in what he was saying, Erik's diagnosis came forth in a string of simple words. "That noise... Is it... You... You are hungry."

Mortified that he had heard, Christine nervously shook her head and attempted to redirect the conversation elsewhere. "I am perfectly fine, Erik. There was no noise. I merely had a sudden cramp."

"No, no. You _are_ hungry; I was right." He rose from his seat, his compositions now forgotten. "Look at you, Christine! If your stomach had not produced that ungodly sound, you would simply have wasted away! Forgive me for being so negligent. Follow me to the kitchen, if you would," he added with a flourish of fingers, beckoning her to walk with him. He did not miss the absolute look of bewilderment on her face as he passed her, however. "Is the concept so unbelievable?" he muttered to himself, striding ahead of her and disappearing through an open doorway.

Christine held her tongue, but she could not escape the peculiarity of the notion. A kitchen might have been the last thing she expected Erik to have in this gloomy excuse for a home, but she followed him anyway, glad of the chance to silence the beast in her belly.

Unsurprisingly, the room was like any other in the dreary underground dwelling. With décor befitting a funeral parlour, the bleak setting descended upon the poor girl without warning, making her shudder uncontrollably. Black wallpaper clung to the walls and sections had even peeled away to reveal the stone wall beneath it. In the middle of the room stood a rickety looking carved table along with two chairs and she coyly stepped towards them, her hands clasped timidly in front of her.

"Ah," she whispered, surveying her crude, yet humble surroundings.

From behind her, Erik emerged out of the darkness. He had watched her reaction from the shadows and though she did well to mask her outward disapproval, he appreciated her tact in not showering him in false compliments. Already aware of how primitive the room looked, he decided that her restrained reaction was entirely justified.

"Here," he said, placing something round and cold into the palm of her hand.

Wandering cautiously over to a candelabra, Christine held up the object to inspect it, the edges of her mouth curling into a smile when she saw that it was an apple—a delicious looking one at that. Her lips immediately curved over the juicy substance and she took no time at all in sinking her teeth into the skin. Sitting down on one of those dreadfully uncomfortable chairs, she continued to devour the piece of fruit and once she was finished, she neatly folded her hands in front of her, letting her gaze skim around the walls.

In the haze of quiet candlelight, Erik studied her—every movement, every colour, and was transfixed. The way her eyes would flicker rapidly from one corner to another as though she were be able to catch the shadows themselves, the flurry of curls that tumbled around her shoulders as she turned her head and her parted lips... Oh, he did not believe in Heaven's light, but he could not ignore the glowing radiance that she omitted simply by existing.

Now adjusted to the low light, she soon caught sight of Erik's dark figure at the other end of the table and she watched him carefully, his stillness a bizarre curiosity to her. Another shudder ran through her, this time at his ghostly countenance and, in the luminescence of flame and smoke, his bloodless mask stared back at her from behind clasped and stony hands.

"Thank you for the apple," she said, tearing her attention away from him.

"You are most welcome, but forgive me for the shortage of food," he replied, pulling himself away from his thoughts before he was lost in an eternal daydream. "I... do not entertain often and I did not have the foresight to plan ahead for you. Measly pieces of fruit will have to suffice for the moment, but I assure you I will not let you starve."

"It is quite all right," she reassured him gently.

"I hope your room is still satisfactory and that you find everything you need in there," he said. "However, if there is something you desire, please tell me and I will fetch it for you. I am entirely at your service..."

Christine was quite certain that he continued speaking to her in such a manner, rambling on about how he hoped she would be comfortable, but her mind was elsewhere. She had told herself not to think of Raoul while in Erik's presence, for she was liable to reveal what she ought to keep hidden, but while she could not forget Raoul, nor his kindness, she was suddenly struck by the way in which Erik was addressing her now. His tone—the softness to his voice was undeniable. It was the same softness she had always heard in Raoul's voice whenever he spoke to her.

Having noticed her vacant expression, Erik had stopped talking and was now trying to gain her attention by calling her name.

"Hmm?" she mumbled, sounding as if she were awakening from a dream.

"Forgive me. Do you wish to retire?" he asked.

Christine frowned at him, finding his statement disorienting. "Do not be silly. Why would I wish to retire in the middle of the afternoon?"

Gazing at her through thinly veiled amusement, Erik leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "Because it is not the middle of the afternoon, that is why. It is nightfall. You slept all day, woke in mid afternoon, confined yourself to your room for a few more hours and when you finally came out the sun had set."

"Nightfall?" He nodded and she eyed him suspiciously. "How can you be so certain of that when I have not seen a single clock, and I know that you do not carry a pocket watch in your waistcoat?"

He tapped one side of his masked nose with the very tip of his forefinger. "I have my ways."

Annoyed by his cryptic answer, Christine folded her arms tightly across her chest and glowered at him. "You are laughing at me."

A delighted grin spread across his mouth, which only grew once he noticed her expression. "Modesty may become you, Christine, but sulking certainly does not."

"Erik," she sighed, ignoring his comment. If you know what time of day it is by going up there—" here, she pointed towards the ceiling, "—then I wish to come too."

"What makes you think I go up there?" He, too, extended a finger towards the ceiling.

"Why all this secrecy? We are soon to be husband and wife," she said, her voice quivering, "and married couples should not have secrets between one another."

He could hear the insecurity she sought to hide but his heart thudded at the mere thought of being bound to her so soon. Not wishing to show his weakened state, however, he smirked arrogantly, tilting his chin up. "Ah, but as you indirectly pointed out, we are not married yet." Before she could reply, Erik spoke again, this time not trying to mask the sincerity in his tone. "Please refrain from arguing, Christine. It would only lead to unpleasantness and I would not want you damaging your vocal chords." He looked away, visibly slumping in his chair. "You have already been put through too much for one day."

Taken aback by his admission, she looked to him in wonderment and confusion, but found that she could not find the words with which to reply. Instead, she simply nodded and stood. "I will leave you for the night and retire. Goodnight, Erik."

Not waiting to hear his reply, she hurried out of the kitchen, across the fine rug and into her room, sealing the wooden frame firmly behind her. This was not an evening she wished to dwell on any further, and she prayed that her dreams would help her to escape for a little while.

o0o

Later that night—or was it morning now?—Christine awake from an uneasy sleep, and simply lay there for a moment, collecting her thoughts, before quickly sitting up and pressing her toes onto the icy surface of the floor. Her nightgown had managed to shield her from the cold dampness in the air, but as she yawned and rubbed her eyes, she was beginning to wonder why she had even left the warmth of her bed.

And then she remembered.

A voice. She had heard a voice. A raised voice. A _taunting_ voice.

Stumbling sleepily to the door, she pressed her ear against the chipped wood, listening, waiting. Her brow furrowed as the voice continued to shout at... nothing? There was no one else that she could hear, no other voice shouting back. She winced at the thought of Erik having one of his episodes, roaming around like one possessed, his unholy eyes piercing the surroundings and searching for anything onto which he could release his anger. Even though this thought frightened her so, she knew she had to go to him.

Leaning her forehead against the door as her hand lingered on the handle, she wondered if she could really be strong enough for him. She knew she _had_ to be strong for him, for both of them, but doubt only made her despise herself more.

Once Erik's voice had fallen into silence, her feet bravely carried her towards his chamber—a terrible place she had found herself in only once before, and she remembered it vividly. Torn curtains draped around the cobbled walls, a hand carved chest of drawers with a lantern on it, mountains of sheet music strewn across the entire space of the floor, a monstrous desk complete with more sheet music, letters and newspapers written in foreign languages, a full length mirror that was cracked hopelessly beyond repair and the spine tingling coffin which acted as the centre piece in that morbid collection.

Peeking around the door, Christine surveyed the poorly lit room and saw that Erik, unhinged and unmasked, was staring at his repulsive reflection in front of the fractured mirror. With one hand he held the top of the gilded frame and in the other he held a small bottle of some sort. In a trance, he stared manically at himself, and Christine pushed her body back until it was protected by the shadows, her palms flat out against the rough texture of the wall as she listened to him with growing worry.

Weakly shoving the bottle towards his cracked reflection, Erik growled and clutched at the worn frame. "What is stopping you?" he whispered, his strained tones piercing Christine's heart as her hand flew to her mouth to muffle a cry of distress.

With one swipe of his thumb, Erik had the lid of the vial wide open, the liquid inside tempting him with its glistening movements, and for a long moment he did not move. Christine had almost convinced herself that he would never move again until he tautly sprang to life, slowly raising the bottle to his face.

An instinct she could not explain drove her forward then, and she flew to his side. Yanking the vial out of his hand before he was able to bring it to his mouth, she hastily closed the lid and stormed over to the lantern. Her pulse was heavy in her ears as she stared into the clear and label free container, her fingers tightening around its body fiercely. "Erik," she began shakily, holding the bottle away from her body in disgust. "What is this?"

"A tonic, is all," he found himself saying to the heavenly voice as he glanced down at his now empty hands, watching how they curled around the air, searching for the thing which had been taken from them.

Christine shifted on the spot, switching her focus between the lantern and the bottle. "A tonic?" How desperately she wanted to believe that! But then, what was this fear what was stabbing at her heart? "You are ill?"

"Oh, yes, Christine, yes. Ill. Ill, is what Erik is. You must give him the tonic so he can cure himself! And then he can rest and he can sleep—yes, sleep is what he wants. Will you not help him?"

Madness. It was all she could think of to describe this moment, to describe his words, to describe _him._ "Tell me the truth," she demanded, spinning around, her gown twirling with her, to see him on his knees, staring at the floor. "What does this vial contain?"

The steadiness in his next words alarmed her greatly. "Poison, my dear... poison... Oh, will you not give it back to your poor Erik? You have shown him such kindness in the past."

" _Poison_ ," she spat, taking a haggard step towards his slumped figure. "You intend for this place to become your tomb? And would you leave me to rot here, too? Is this to become my tomb as well? I did not think you so cruel."

"Not to rot, Christine!" he cried, grimacing at the way her voice broke and tensed under her harsh tone. "I only wish to give you your freedom! When I am gone, you will be free! It is what you want, is it not?"

Horrified by his accusation, her pulse quickened and she felt her lungs compress, as if the weight of his words had been pressed against her chest. The realisation of her selfishness lingered at the bottom of her stomach. "Is that what you think? Do you truly believe that I would wish for your death?"

"You have every reason to hate me," he said, "even wish me dead. Why should I not believe such a thing?"

"Because it is false!" The confidence in her cry made Erik falter before turning to face her.

When his marred head twisted in her direction, Christine remained stoic, unmoved by the nature of his face. It did not frighten her now, but that did not make it any less unsettling. After she came to her senses, after she forced herself to look beyond his features, she thought she could see a gleaming streak running down the length of his face. The lonely path of a single tear. But as her scrutinising eyes continued to study him, Erik slowly became aware of the mask which lay at his feet and the cool air brushing against his skin. Ashamed, his hands rose to his face and Christine's heart broke all over again.

"A life is a precious thing," she told him, trying not to let the sight of his protective posture weaken the strength of her words. Even now, he hid himself from her, and she could not bear it. "Never think your life is worthless when you have given so much of it."

Through spread fingers, Erik hesitantly looked towards the mirror and saw a dozen watchful angels clothed in white, each one radiant and pure and kind. But when he turned behind him, there was only one angel. _His_ angel—whose breath was scented with such sweetness that it perfumed her words, shielding him from the truths he did not want to hear.

"You... You do not wish me dead?" he asked, longing for her confectioned lies.

"No matter what you have done, I would never wish that," she answered truthfully, closing the distance between them. Dropping to her knees, she placed the vial on the floor next to his mask before her eyes lingered there, on the object which still held so much claim over him. "I would never wish that on anybody."

"You are too good to me," he said through shallow breaths, pulling her away from the mask.

"No," she replied gently. "I am not good to you, and you are not good to me. But, perhaps," she continued, staring at her lap, "we may be good _for_ one another."

"I will never be good for anything," he muttered woefully, pressing his fingertips sharply into his face. "I do not know why you stay."

Though filled with ire and frustration, Christine found his inability to look at her directly more disheartening than his muffled words. "Will you not lower your hands?" she asked, her soft voice tugging at his fingers, tempting him, persuading him to submit to her.

A heavy silence fell upon them and a smile even graced her lips when those quivering hands dropped to his sides. His features twitched and a twisted pain shot through her soul as she raised her hand, a small gesture of kindness bereft of malice, and he flinched violently away from her. Like a beaten dog, he leaned back, his body stiff and wary, believing that any sudden movement could bring forth pain.

Startled and racked with guilt, Christine immediately lowered her hand, making sure to prolong the motion so that Erik was able to see what her true intentions had been. "Neither of us would surely admit to this," she began, "but we will both need each other to survive down here. We cannot leave the other alone. Not now. It would surely be the end of us."

Reaching forward slowly, she delicately slipped her hand into his—a light pressure, reassuring him of their needed commitment.

Erik sat limply before her, both grateful and astounded at the warmth her skin provided him. Her compassion exceeded his expectations and he realised how pitiful he must have looked to her. What else could he have done then but weep? To be held by her caring hand was almost too much for him to process, and yet his sobs only seemed to make the grip around his hand tighten.

But he did not dare return the gesture. He was not worthy enough to return the angel's touch.


	3. Chapter 3

Paranoia had seemed to consume Erik's judgement and it was as though he thought Christine would leave at any second, never to return again. Her reassurance that her leaving would never be an issue calmed him to some extent. Nevertheless, he still clung to her every movement, wanting to go wherever she went, like a newborn craving its mother. He knew how desperate his actions were, but he could not help it and when her mere presence was not enough for him, he had boldly attempted to touch her, simply for more grounded reassurance. _To touch is to believe_ , he thought, and his hand would reach out to take hers or his long fingers would itch to close around one of her curls, wishing the two would entwine. Timidly, he would pine for her, but he would always draw back into himself one way or another in fear of soiling her.

Christine saw these attempts and although she did not rebuke them, she often wondered why he did not allow himself even the smallest of comforts. At times, she caught him watching her, but she was certain that he did not know of her awareness of the fact. His stare was too unnerving to ignore and too intense to return, and so she was placed in the position of tolerating his company without needing to engage him in conversation.

Ever since that dreadful night when she had found Erik with the poison, he had been persistent not to leave her alone. She suspected that he was merely persistent not to be alone, himself. Wherever she ventured, he was always there, watching, sometimes seen and sometimes unseen. What shocked her the most was that he would even trail behind her as she retired to her bedchamber at night, almost as if he was escorting her, vigilant to dangers she knew were not there. A tender goodnight always lay upon his lips before he quickly retreated back to his own room, but she did not mistake the loneliness that shone in his eyes.

One evening, Christine had been peacefully lounging in the library, reading a book and absent-mindedly toying with her dress skirt. Erik had thankfully brought her an array of clothing after that first night and she had been all too eager to hurl her costume into his arms and command that he get rid of it immediately. It pleased her to know that she would never have to look at it again.

When she had just turned over a page, she sensed another presence in the room, but for a few short minutes she did not nothing but continue to read. When the silence soon became bothersome, however, she placed her book down on the armchair and whipped her head around to face Erik.

When her father, God rest his soul, had passed, Christine had come to live with an old associate of his named Madame Valérius, who had eventually allowed Christine to call her Mamma Valérius, much to her own glee. Her father had made frequent visitations to her home to perform on his violin, bringing life back to the old woman's otherwise dead face. Ever since her husband had been taken from her by the ravages of time, she had longed for something to fill those empty hours, and the violinist and his daughter had proved the most excellent company. When Mamma Valérius had accidentally happened upon the young Christine singing to herself, she had exclaimed how the girl's voice must have made choirs of angels envious.

The old woman had continued to shower her with affection and encouragement until the day when Christine had reluctantly agreed to an audition. Being somewhat a patron of the arts herself, Mamma Valérius' influence was the only thing that had secured Christine's place at the Opéra de Paris at first. Her voice, though endearing, had lacked the maturity and strength the other members possessed, and she was instantly looked down upon, accused of buying her way in.

Christine endured their speculative glances and whispers for Mamma Valérius' sake, knowing that she was pleasing her by joining the company. It was as instinctive as breathing, how much she dearly loved to sing. She knew that she did not possess the voice or the ability to be what her guardian wanted her to be, and yet she persisted over the years.

There was only one other who heard the potential in her rusty voice and _he_ had become her rock in a raging sea of turmoil and uncertainty. He had cared for her, moulded her, encouraged her, and it was now his presence from which she was shying away.

She knew of Erik's declarations of love, but she could not let go of the past so easily. Fearing that she would not be able to love, or even care for him in the way that he wished, she found herself inevitably holding him back from true happiness.

"Christine?" he said, pulling her out of her deep procession of thoughts.

Having edged closer without her noticing, Erik now stood by her side, his hands clasped in front of him and his mask staring blankly down at her. He shifted and his hopeful eyes lit up in the glow of the fire as her beautiful face turned to him in a slight daze.

"May I join you?" he asked. "Only if it would not disturb you, of course. Would I disturb you in staying, Christine?"

Surprised by the calmness in his voice and beguiled by his unexpected courtesy, she shook her head slowly and watched as he glided over to an overfilled shelf and started to browse through the titles before choosing to sit behind her, at his desk by the wall. Christine returned to her own book, occasionally peering over the top of the tattered spine to spy on her strange companion. She had become so accustomed to keeping an eye on him now that the riveting words on the page were not enough to pull her into the story again.

Instead, she turned in her chair and looked at the figure on the other side of the room. He was not facing her, but she could see that his shoulders were hunched and she took this opportune moment to study him, propping her elbows up on the chair arm and drooping her chin into her palms. A flicker of fire bled across his form and she could see the edge of his black mask, the mask he was never without. She pursed her lips then, and, before she stopped to think of the consequences, blurted out, "Where is it?"

At this, Erik's back stiffened, but relaxed so quickly afterwards that she doubted he had even moved at all. "Where is what?" he asked.

Standing up in one smooth motion, almost daringly, she narrowed her eyes and stood her ground. She had spoken out of terms, uncontrollably, and now she had to brace herself for what was to come. "Do not pretend to be ignorant with me. You know of what I speak."

In truth, Erik did know. She spoke of that awful substance, the poison—her bane and his release. Every time she had tried to bring the subject up, he had dismissed it with the flick of a hand. He did not wish to remember that night... the night she had found him on the floor. Weak. Vulnerable. _Pathetic._ He had begged her silently to never speak of it again and he had foolishly thought that she would comply.

Christine flinched at the harsh noise of his book slamming shut and she withdrew from him immediately, backing up until she had almost reached the wall. She watched anxiously as he stood, showing off his mocking height, before he jerked his arm to the side, casting the book from his grasp and making it hit the shelves with a violent thud.

"Now," he said, his voice a deep rumble within his throat, like the roll of thunder before the strike of lightning. "Would you like to clarify what it is you are talking about?"

If his goal was to intimidate her then he had succeeded, her words failing to form on her tongue as he approached. "I-I... The..."

"You mustn't stutter, Christine. Spit it out," he growled.

As she moved her head to the side, strands of thick hair fell across her cheek and she prayed that they were enough to hide her trembling face. "The vial," she whispered.

"I do not think that it is any concern of yours," he snapped, narrowing his eyes.

Wondering why he felt the need to shut her out, she turned her head back to him and was alarmed at the close proximity of their faces. Startled, her words once again seemed lost in her mouth. "I-I—"

"Enough," he cooed, control straining his voice as one long finger came up to hover over her lips. "Enough," he repeated softer than before. Christine stared at that finger before looking into those cloudy eyes that were fixed upon her and her alone. "You are frightened, aren't you? Forgive me... please, forgive me. Sometimes, I do not know why I react the way I do." His voice wrapped a cocoon of silk around her and Christine felt herself instantly relax, despite the nerves which arose from his prolonged and engrossed stare. Her glances dropped in modesty and she did not even move to stop him when that raised finger began to trail across the line of her jaw and up the curve of her cheek.

As he dared to touch the siren before him, tracing skin with rough fingertip, Erik fought to keep his heart from leaping out of his chest. Had he ever known such softness before? His free hand twitched, wishing to take her hand, to hold her in his arms like any other suitor would, but it did not stray from his side. It was only when her eyes caught his in a steady gaze and he became entranced by the intensity which quietly burned within them that he paused. Fear flickered across his face, obscured by the mask, and soon he became flustered, unsure of what to do with himself and of why she did not push him away.

A bundle of nerves herself, Christine did not know which impulse radiated through her more fiercely; the want to step away from his childlike curiosity and those quivering hands that bore the stains of men's blood, or the incomprehensible need to collapse into the heat of his body, to drown in an awkward embrace, to finally show him the care he had never known.

Searching her face, Erik stared, waiting for an answer, a rejection, _anything_ to appear and tell him what to do. But no such answer came, only her locked attention, the hefty weight of her neutral expression doing nothing to calm his racing heart.

Wanting to escape her gaze and taking a chance, he slowly brought his face closer, dipping down to bury the mask within a thicket of hair. Christine froze at this before bracing herself against the wall, her hands pressing firmly to it as she wondered what it would be like to melt into the structure and simply disappear. The uncomfortable pressure of the mask against her skin pulled her away from such unrealistic thoughts and cemented her to the room and to the awareness of Erik leaning helplessly into her. She saw his hand move with the greatest uncertainty before it tangled itself in her curls, lightly stroking and pulling on the strands. But when she felt his warm breath dance against the crook of her neck, her eyelids shut in a moment of bewildered contentment.

Erik exhaled deeply, absorbed in her friendly warmth and the lack of tension in her body, but beneath his ease grew a deepening anxiety. She had not moved since he had approached her. Surely she was not accommodating him? No, no, she was merely appeasing him. His anger had pacified her, but what must she think of his actions? Bold. Reckless. Why did she not move then? Repulsion. Fear. He should not have touched her.

As if burnt, he withdrew sharply from her and stumbled backwards. His face was hidden and under the control of its lifeless prison but Christine could see how his chin trembled, how it betrayed his otherwise stiff demeanour.

"Forgive me," he pleaded again, his head drooping and hands now wringing at his side. "Christine," he laughed humorously. "I have once again tainted you with my wickedness. Once again you have allowed a monster to touch you!" Slumping his shoulders over, he created the illusion of an even thinner frame. "You are my weakness," he whispered, his voice fervent with impassioned distress, clutching at his heart as he continued, "and here you are within my grasp. I... I..." Suddenly correcting his posture, he seemed to regain his dignified conduct in a matter of seconds before he walked with some seemingly great purpose straight past her and through the door. Christine lagged behind him, confused over his erratic behaviour. "I have a present for you," he called over his shoulder. "Come."

"A... present?" Flustered by his words, she ran a hand over her hair, wary of the blush that now stained her cheeks.

"Yes! A present," he called behind him. "I had thought to give it to you at a later date, but I just could not wait any longer. Besides! Arrangements have now been made... Yes, they have been—oh, just a moment, if you will." He then strode into his bedchamber and she waited nervously for him to return, thankful for the time alone to collect her thoughts. As she neared the door, however, she could hear his muffled words of irritation. "Where is it? Where is it? I could not have lost... ah! Here it—" A sudden clatter interrupted his words and then all fell silent.

"Are you all right?" Christine asked, concerned, as she hovered by the door.

Erik cursed under his breath as he stood in a pile of fallen sheet music and binders. He had carelessly left her present on the floor and had apparently made use of it as a second desk for his compositions. His eyes darted about the mess, wishing to clear it up, but the object in his hands held too great a purpose. The rest would just have to wait.

Christine nearly tripped over herself as he suddenly came tumbling through the door, carrying a large white box complete with red ribbon.

"Here," he said, practically shoving the box into her arms and she stumbled, a little surprised at the given strength behind the gesture.

"Oh." She peered around and underneath the object and raised an eyebrow, wondering more about his behaviour than the gift itself. "Um, thank you."

He sighed and swiftly turned her around on the spot before gently guiding her towards her own bedchamber. His strange act left her struggling to find the words with which to scold him for jostling her out the room. "Do not thank me," he chided. "You do not yet know of its contents."

"I know," she managed. "But—"

"Hush. Now, I want you out of that room as soon as you are ready. I would like to see."

"See what?" she asked him, but it was too late. He had already placed her in his wanted destination and had closed the door on her.

Christine stood, silently glancing between the latch and the box before quickly dropping the latter onto the soft covers of the bed. Begrudgingly, she lifted the lid and with a high gasp tumbling from between her lips, she stared at what was within.

Reaching out with eager fingers, she grasped the mountain of material and flung it out of the box, pressing it against her body for further inspection. It was a dress, beautiful, elegant, and she regarded it with awe. She ran her hand over the different textures, feeling the slight roughness of the sleeves edged in frill, the smoothness of ivory silk and the layered ruffles which completed the long skirt. A ghost of a smile flickered on her face as she laid the dress down on the bed with the intent of trying it on.

With one last glance towards the door, she stripped off her clothing, leaving it in a messy bundle at the foot of the bed, before running a hand over her constrictive corset and frowning over the dress. It was only then that she began to wonder about the intent behind it, the thoughts fighting to flourish in her distracted mind. She soon had the dress placed on her body, however, and, noticing that the box also contained a pair of boots, she snatched them up and placed them on her feet before turning to the mirror.

Though never one to be vain, she simply could not help but appraise her reflection, nor could she stop from walking about the room, parading her dress skirts around her legs as she twirled.

She stopped in her tracks as she noticed the box was not yet empty and so she went to see what was left. She thought that perhaps it was a hat or a pair of gloves to go with the ensemble, but no, there was no hat and there were no gloves. Instead, she saw a folded pile of delicate lace, lined with intricate patterns of tiny hand sewn swirls and flowers. She clutched wildly at the material as it was lifted from the box and into the light almost ceremoniously.

"A veil?" she whispered, fighting the urge to rip the fabric from her body. "Dear God, this... this is a _wedding_ dress. No. No, surely not. No, it cannot be... I have more time..."

Practically running back into the living room, she found Erik pacing and flapping his hands behind his back, only stopping when he noticed her.

"Oh, Christine," he sighed, looking her up and down in wonder. "You are a vision."

"I am... flattered," she spoke hollowly as troubling thoughts flew through her mind. "Tell me, Erik," she began calmly, hoping he would explain all of this swiftly, "where did you purchase this dress?"

He chuckled as he strolled over to her, pulling the veil from her hands and fixing it in place atop her head. Aghast at his nonchalance, Christine waited patiently for him to reply, anxiously watching as he untangled the material at the back so it flowed more elegantly before he stepped back to admire his work.

"A magician never reveals his secrets," he said cryptically, taking another step back and sighing in delight, sprawling his hands out in the air towards her. "The dress is to your liking, then? Yes?"

"Yes," she replied slowly. "It is beautiful."

"I am so glad, and it is comfortable? I tried to see to—"

"Yes, Erik," she interrupted. "It is comfortable, but I must ask—"

"Excellent!" he cried, beaming to himself. "You shall have no worries over wearing it for the rest of the day then."

"Pardon me?" Perhaps she misheard him. "Erik, this is a... a wedding dress, is it not?"

"Why, yes," he replied brightly.

"Then... why would I want to wear it all day?" she asked, her voice an innocent droll as her skin tingled in apprehension of his answer. She already knew what he would say.

He turned to her in barely contained enthusiasm as he exclaimed, "Oh, did I neglect to mention that today is our wedding day? Silly Erik! Silly, silly Erik. Now, come, we have much to do."

"No!" she cried out ardently, snatching hold of her dress skirts and presenting them as if they were coated with something most foul. "I will not be rushed to the altar! If we truly are to be wed—"

"Which we are. _Today._ I have all the arrangements made."

She swallowed a biting remark and continued her words from before. "If we are truly to be wed so soon then I..." Her words faded into a silence as a string of questions entered her mind, each and every one of them lined with a new sense of hope in prolonging her fate. "Erik? Did you even obtain permission for us to wed? I do not think Mamma knows about any of this! Were you going to tell her? Where you going to tell _me?_ And where is the church?" she demanded, a little rattled, yet glowing with determination. "How are we to get there on such short notice? It is customary for the bride to know all these details before the wedding day, Erik. Surely you do not want a flustered bride beside you?"

As she saw him pause, she smiled inwardly, prematurely victorious, believing that her words had done enough to sway him. But they had not. "Do not concern yourself over the documentation. I have said that I have everything sorted. But, you are right," he added, tilting his head upwards in thought, "I do not want a flustered bride. But fear not, Christine, we shall travel on horseback and, if you wish it, I shall explain all to you on the way. Come."

"Ha!" she exclaimed, taking a large step away from him. "You will need all the luck you can get to march me down the aisle today."

"Ah, but you have forgotten one detail, Christine."

"And what is that?" she asked, raising her eyebrow.

Placing her hands on her hips, she tried to look as fierce as her petite body would allow, but her posture slumped as he suddenly strode towards her and yanked the Vicomte's engagement ring off her finger, hardly registering her yelp as he slid in into his jacket pocket.

The protest in her mouth turned dry as she saw what he then produced from the same pocket. In his hand, he held a little velvet roped bag. Holding his free hand beside the other, he tilted the bag until two objects tumbled out onto his upturned palm. Two plain wedding bands glistened there in dull candlelight, sparkling, inviting and ever frightening.

A grin spread smugly over his chalk like skin as he curled his fingers around the rings. "I make my own luck."


	4. Chapter 4

During her time at the Opéra, Christine had collected countless memories of the young ballerinas gossiping about marital fantasies. Huddled in one corner, the nonsensical girls chattered on throughout the evenings before they returned home, giggling about their futures and what untold joys and riches lay in store for them. Their hushed whispers had carried flickers of hope and excitement through the shaded halls, and Christine often listened to them through closed doors. Now, she only shook her head and even laughed at herself about how delusional they had been and, more importantly, how delusional she had allowed them to make her _ _.__ They had spoken of true love, of knights in shining armour, who would one day carry them off into the sunset. A picture book ending—and Christine had believed them. _How silly it all seems now_ , she thought. How could they have filled their heads with such talk of love when they had not yet experienced it for themselves?

Even on today, her __wedding__ day, Christine was not sure what love was. She thought she knew of its promises when Raoul had entered her life again, but that all changed when Erik had declared his love for her. From then onwards, the two men who had wanted her love so ardently had torn her heart in two. Her mind wrenched her away from the darkness and into Raoul's arms, while her soul led her away from daylight and into Erik's domain. Yet, this was not what Christine had dreamt her wedding day to be like.

When Erik had finally emerged from his bedchamber, he was dressed in an all black ensemble. He was perhaps the most morbid bridegroom Christine had ever seen, for he looked more like an undertaker. Pensively, she thought not of herself as his living bride, but of his undead bride.

Once he had adjusted his gloves, he looked up at her expectantly, his eyes softening as he saw her, still dressed in the wedding gown, and asked if she was ready. She gulped and looked down at her veil, now twisted and scrunched within her fingers. No, she was not ready, but a promise had been made. Her eyes remained on the beautiful fabric in her grasp for a few seconds more before she put on her bravest, most convincing smile and looked up at her intended. Pride surged through him as he extended a hand towards her and Christine's smile faltered as she walked towards him.

Knowing that one word against this arrangement would end in hatred, she remained quiet. Yet, it made her tremble to her very core to think that Erik would not wait before wanting to claim her as his own. It had only been a week or so since she had agreed to marry him, but she had not thought about the conditions it would bring, and yet not one word of protest escaped her. In fact, no words at all seemed to be able to make their way to her lips. Disgruntled, she slipped her hand into Erik's and allowed him to lead her to their future.

Rigidly, Christine was led through unfamiliar and disconsolate corridors. The only light came from a lantern ahead of her and she often tripped over her own feet in the darkness—it was the only time she was thankful for Erik's guiding hand. After what seemed like a lifetime of unfortunate stumbles, they finally arrived at a worn door. Christine held her breath as she saw sunlight streaming in through the cracks of the wood. She stared at the bright rays as Erik released her hand and began to unlock the bolt. As soon as he had swung the door open, the glow of the evening sun, both vibrant and warm, spread across eager and wanting skin. The strain behind her eyes, however, bothered her immensely. She had spent too long underground.

After her vision had adjusted itself to the light, she took in her surroundings and saw that they were standing in a clearing amongst very large and towering trees. The bottom of the veil dragged along the mossy floor as she stepped out of the hallway, smiling once more at the first joining of boots and soft earth. Erik watched as she gazed around her, taking delight in her childlike glee.

Having been so used to the cobbled streets of the city, Christine had almost forgotten what it was to be one with the uneven, but organic flow of nature. The ground was stacked with greenery, accompanied with deep browns and oranges. The air was thick and scented, and there was a layer of thin mist that covered the hem of her gown and stopped her from seeing the ground below. _It is a clearing fit for creatures of magic_ , she thought, half expecting to hear the light flutter of a faerie's wings beat at her ear.

"Where are we?" she asked as she walked farther into the woods with Erik trailing a slow path behind.

"That is irrelevant," he told her, strolling deeper into the trees, and Christine stared after him, wondering what he was planning. "Now," he continued, not stopping, "I shall be gone for several minutes to acquire our transportation." He turned to her, a wary glint behind the mask. "I want you to stay in this exact spot until my return."

Raising an eyebrow at his apparent trust, Christine took a step toward him. "How can you be sure that I will not run?"

"Where is there to run to? You have no idea where you are and I think you are not stupid enough to try to find your way back through there," he said, pointing at the door they had just come through. He was satisfied to see her drop her gaze to the ground in silence, obviously having accepted his reasoning. "I will be back shortly."

When Christine looked up to see him vanished, her fingers reached up to nervously fiddle with her hair as she bit her lip and contemplated his words. No, she was not stupid enough to turn back and run, but these winding paths and sheltering branches were becoming more tempting with each passing second. But as she stared into the trees, her mind began to lead her down a dark and haunting route. If she were to run, what strange things would be lurking out there at every turn? She had heard tell of unpleasant stories, of unfortunate victims in wooded areas, but she had never paid them too much heed...

A snap echoed behind her and she spun around quickly, the veil slipping from sweaty fingers and her eyes a frantic series of motions. She could not see anything out of the ordinary, but nor could she see anything that could have been responsible for making the noise. Nervously, she picked up the veil, pressing it to her body as if it were an impenetrable shield, and waited.

The minutes continued to slip by and Erik had not yet returned. She had stepped back to linger within the threshold of the passageway, finding herself reluctantly seeking the comfort the darkness provided. And although she heard no more sudden noises, she would have sworn that the wind carried with it a soft moan, floating around her like the lament of a lost soul, a desperate cry, an eternal call.

But she of all people should have known that spirits did not exist.

Her worries vanished soon afterwards for out of the distance came Erik... with a rather large creature in tail. As he neared, she saw that a black stallion trotted along the mossy path beside him, its strong legs gliding effortlessly through the thicket and its mane billowing in the light breeze. Christine was at a loss for words, instantly inquisitive as to how he had acquired the fine specimen. She eyed Erik suspiciously, thinking he might have stolen it from a carriage of a nobleman and she tactlessly asked him as much.

"Your doubt wounds my pride," he scoffed, not making her accusation any less valid in her mind. He brushed long fingers through the short hair of the horse's coat and Christine watched, fascinated, as it responded quite positively to his touch, shaking its head and nudging his arm. Had she ever seen anything so receptive and so welcoming to Erik before? "This is Caesar," he informed her. "He is mine."

"Yours? He.. is beautiful," she admitted, though a little scrupulously, stepping closer to the odd pair. "Caesar. It is an unusual name for a horse."

"It suits him well." When she raised an eyebrow, he smirked and focused on fixing the ageing saddle before placing the veil carefully into the side satchel. "Caesar is an Imperial title, as you know. It belongs to a figure of great power and importance. Now, look at him," he said, admiring the magnificence creature. "Would you not agree that he holds power in both body and mind?"

Before Christine was given the chance to reply, however, her feet were swept off the ground and she suddenly fell backwards into Erik's arms. She let out a tiny shriek and had no other choice but to cling onto his neck for dear life. Her glares were met by an apologetic grimace before he lifted her onto the saddle. Having underestimated the height of the horse, Christine quickly gripped the reins and stared at her dangling legs, which now seemed terribly far from the ground. After a stiff gulp ran down her throat, she felt Erik mount himself up behind her and gently pull the reins out of her hands. With a quick motion of his feet in the stirrups, they began their journey.

Christine shut her eyes tightly, blocking out everything except the clicking of hooves against ground, and attempted to not draw attention to the way her back was pressed against her companion's chest. Erik, on the other hand, took great pain in keeping his breathing level at such an alarming proximity. Never had she been this close to him, for this long before, and he savoured every accidental nudge of her elbow and the strands of hair that flew up against the wind and tickled his bare chin.

He kept to the shadows in the already dimming light as they galloped to their destination. The mist had followed them into the more rural areas, it had seemed, and Erik soon noticed his beloved shiver under the damp air.

"Are you all right?" he asked, worrying what the cold would do to her health and voice. "If you have a chill then you may use the cloak I have brought. Is that what you wish?"

Had she not been in this unwanted predicament, she would have been tempted to smile at his kindness. "No. No, thank you," she murmured, rubbing her hands together nervously as they rode through darkened streets and unrelenting mist. "How much farther is it?"

"A couple of miles," he replied quietly after a short pause. His breath landed on her skin and he did not miss the small hairs which stood up on the back of her neck.

"Erik, I... I..." How was she to tell him to turn back without unleashing his unspeakable anger? But oh, she would do anything to prolong the cursed inevitable. "Erik, I feel a little light headed. Would you mind stopping for a little while? All this jostling is making me sick to my stomach. I-I fear I may faint."

Being so close to their destination, Erik could not help but hold a suspicion to her claims. But, if her words surfaced to be true and she fainted in his arms then he would never forgive himself for failing to attend to her needs properly. "Very well," he said, pulling on the reins sharply and guiding Caesar into a barren alley. "But only for a few minutes."

Christine did not comment on his insistent punctuality and instead dismounted, focusing on breathing deeply whilst leaning against the hard wall. The nip in the air that she had despised moments before was now a welcome change. Within clenched fists, her heavy pulse trembled and from their concealment in the shadows, she began to glance around her. "Where exactly are we now?"

"The Rue Saint-Honoré, I believe."

A pause, and then, "My guardian lives on this street," she whispered, but Erik just stared at her indifferently.

"Why are you being pragmatic?"

Christine shrugged absent-mindedly and continued, "I have not seen her in such a long time," and there was a slight possibility, however small that may have been, that the woman would be able to help her. "I would also like her blessing before we are wed," she lied.

Erik's black eyes flickered to focus on the wet pavement. "I would prefer not to—"

"Please," she begged of him. "I care deeply about having her consent."

"Christine, I said that I have already..." His brow creased behind the mask as he thought over all his false documentation. It was all they needed, but as he studied her hopeful face he felt his will weakening. He could not deny her this. "Very well."

She grinned widely in appreciation before starting to wander off in the direction of the house.

"Wait."

Fearful, Christine froze, thinking he may have changed his mind. But a moment later, a cloak was being wrapped around her shoulders. Relaxing into its warmth, she murmured her gratitude before cheerily walking again. She resisted the urge to look back, for, though she heard nothing, she knew that she did not travel alone.

It did not take long for her to find the familiarity of her guardian's door and she raised her hand up with a small smile playing on her lips, only hesitating as Erik's voice reached her ear. "You seem awfully well for someone who stated that they were going to faint."

Deciding to ignore his words, even as her entire body tensed under them, she knocked on the door lightly. There was no answer. She knocked again and again until the door suddenly creaked open. A small, skinny girl, no older than fourteen, stood in the door way. She cowered behind the frame but her eyes lit up when she saw the woman standing before her.

Through her petite lips she whispered, "Mademoiselle Christine!"

"Simone!" she exclaimed, happily crouching down to the girl's eye level. "Oh, come here, let me see you." Christine beckoned her closer and was immediately met by eager little arms wrapping themselves around her neck.

Simone giggled. "Mademoiselle Christine, it is so good to see you again! But why have you come here at this hour? And alone!"

Christine frowned and pulled back so that she could look into the girl's concerned eyes. When she turned around, she was met with nothing, not even a shadow of a man on the street around them. Shaking her head, she turned her attention back to Simone. "Where is your mother, dear?"

"At home. She... she is ill. I am taking care of her as well as resuming my duties here along with Madame Dumas." She forced a smile to her lips. "Oh, but we must get you inside, Mademoiselle. You will freeze out here." Her little fingers wrapped around Christine's wrist as she dragged her inside, shutting the door quietly behind them.

A wave of relief washed over Christine as she was greeted by the roaring warmth of a fire in the next room and the overwhelming aroma of perfume. "How is Mamma?"

"Hon är väl." Christine smiled proudly at the sound of her native language on the girl's tongue. It had been too long since she had spoken it herself, let alone heard it. Simone then clasped her hands innocently in front of her, pleased with the woman's radiant smile. "I still remember some of what you taught me." Christine grinned once again at the girl's wonderful memory and at how pleased she was that she was so articulate.

"That is good to hear, Simone. You are a very clever girl. Now, run along, I can see myself to Mamma... speaking of which, where is she?"

"Upstairs, first door on the left. If there is anything you need, do not hesitate to ask," she said before scuttling away towards the kitchen, where the booming voice of Madame Dumas sounded upon her entrance.

Christine did not waste any time before hurrying up the stairs. It was strange being back here and when she had reached the door which separated her from her guardian, she paused, preparing herself for the tearful reunion she knew she would face. From within, she could hear the quiet turning of a page and an occasional sigh. Longing to linger and listen to these sounds a while longer, she closed her eyes and leaned against the frame, only noticing too late that her shifted weight had caused the floor beneath her to groan.

"Is that you, Simone?"

The tender voice brought a warmth to Christine's heart. "No," she said, pushing the door open and looking upon her surrogate mother with utter adoration. "It's me, Mamma."

"Christine?" she whispered, her pale eyes shining at the sight of her lovely one. "Oh, Christine, dear! Come in, come in!"

Rushing over to her, Christine collapsed into her comforting embrace, a broken but joyful sob on her lips. How she had missed her! It had only been several weeks since they had last parted, but each day had felt like an eternity to Christine.

Pulling back, Mamma Valérius reluctantly gestured for her ward to step back, a shaky smile spreading on her face. "Turn, dear, let me see you properly."

Indulging her, Christine turned slowly, feeling like a primed mannequin on display, but she kept her cloak tightly wrapped around her, lest the wedding gown be seen. She need not have worried though, for Mamma Valérius saw nothing but her darling girl there before her.

"You look healthy, dear, but thin," she observed, noting gaunt cheeks and wrists before folding her hands in her lap, the book now forgotten. "Is your fiancé not feeding you?"

A chill ran through her and Christine felt her fingers twist into the material of the cloak ever so slightly. "Raoul... Um, the __Vicomte__ is not my fiancé anymore."

A horrifying look of confusion and suspicion washed over the old woman's tired face. "What on earth are you talking about? Of course you are engaged to him. Why, only days ago I was speaking with him."

"You were?" Christine cried, dropping to her knees in front of her. "What did he say? How is he? Is he well?"

"Calm yourself, child," Mamma Valérius chided. "And for Heaven's sake, stand up. Really, you act as though you have not seen him in months."

A tremor of relief jolted through Christine's body. It seemed that her guardian was unaware of their situation, but soon she thought of Raoul and why he had not mentioned certain recent events to her. "Where did you speak to him?"

"Here, of course. Not at the Opéra, if that is what you were insinuating," she added. "I apologise that I have not been able to attend your performances lately. It would seem that I need assistance just to journey down a flight of stairs now! Servants are one thing, but I draw the line at having strangers in my home." She chuckled but Christine clutched at her hand anyway, comforting her, answering her silent plea. "I do not suppose that really matters now seeing as you are retiring. Such a pity it is, and at such a young age too."

"Retirement..." she echoed vacantly.

"Yes, that woman... oh, what is her name? She has a stern look about her, beady eyes, middle-aged—"

"Madame Giry?"

"Giry, yes, that is the one. Madame Giry had informed me the other day that you were taking a rest period so that you can recover from all this ghost business, and that your eventual marriage to the Vicomte will lead to your retirement from the stage. I would have inquired after you were if not for his visit. He stated that you are fine, but he seemed uneasy when he spoke of you. Perhaps that is why he never mentioned..." Her eyes shot back to Christine. " _ _Why__ are you not engaged to him?"

"I... I am engaged to someone else."

"You may be away from the hustle of the stage, dear, but you have certainly kept yourself busy." A horrendous blush burned Christine's cheeks at her guardian's implications. "Who is he?" she asked, her inquisitive mind now outweighing her annoyance. "Do I know him? Is he of a good background? Is he able to support you, or is that why the young Vicomte did not wish to mention him? And __why__ , pray, does he think it is acceptable not to speak to me about this? Really," she chided. "There is a proper way of doing things."

"Our engagement has not been formally announced, Mamma," Christine said gently as she watched the old woman's eyes widen. "It has happened all rather suddenly."

"You are not eloping, I hope? Heaven forbid!"

"No, Mamma!" Christine protested, thinking how she could explain such a thing to her. She could not very well tell her that she was betrothed to a ghost. She would think her mad! "My fiancé, he is... a musician." At least that was not a lie. "A genius, in fact. He is a composer and an architect and... Oh, believe me when I say that I know our engagement is sudden, but I-I have to marry him."

"Why, dear?" Concern flooded the woman's frail body.

"Because I..." Christine could feel hot tears stinging her eyes and she drooped her head forward onto her guardian's lap. "Because I have to marry him. There is no other way to explain this, Mamma. I made a promise. Do not ask me questions and __please__ —" Christine looked up at her in desperation, her grip on those wrinkled hands tightening to a point where they were slowly turning white, "— _ _please__ , for Raoul's sake, do not tell him of my visit here, nor of my engagement. It is for his safety."

Producing a handkerchief with hand stitched initials from her sleeve, Mamma Valérius slipped her fingers under Christine's chin, carefully raising the girl's head to look at her. "What do you mean it is for his safety?" She waited patiently for a reply, delicately wiping away her ward's tears with a motherly touch that Christine did not realise she had missed.

"They do not get along," she explained simply. "It is best that they do not ever come into contact with one another."

"Do you love him?" her guardian asked, seeking to redirect the conversation slightly.

"Who?"

At this, she smiled. "Your fiancé, dear."

"No," Christine murmured, still conflicted over what exactly it was that she felt for Erik. "I am scared, Mamma, but I still care for Raoul and I miss him terribly and I fear that I cannot fully move on when he is still in my heart. I will try to move on, truly I will. But, please. Please, promise me that you will not tell Raoul anything."

Mamma Valérius frowned at Christine's erratic behaviour but agreed. "I am certain that in time you will grow to care for your fiancé." Her words were laced in elderly confidence and Christine wondered if such a certainty were truly possible. "But why do you cry at the very mention of him?" Sensing a reluctance to speak, she then whispered, "I have done nothing but care for you these past years and you know you can always confide in me."

Her persuasion swayed her and Christine spoke very quietly, paranoia setting in as her eyes darted towards the window and door. "I am so very afraid for his soul, Mamma. He has done things—bad things—and I am afraid that his soul may be lost forever." Erik's belief in her, that her love alone would be enough to redeem him frightened her terribly. His expectation of her—it was too great, far too great—and she could not live up to it.

Mamma Valérius gently began pushing her away and Christine was appalled when she saw that she was attempting to stand up. Worried for her lack of support, Christine's hands quickly travelled to her elbows only to be waved off by a flick of her hand. Shadowing her every move, Christine watched carefully as she hobbled over to the dresser on the other side of the room. Her eyes roamed the messy dresser until she saw what Mamma Valérius was reaching for. She continued to follow the object with speculative eyes as it was brought to the old woman's lips before being placed into her own hands.

A beaded necklace with a wooden cross lay in Christine's palms. Staring down at the object, she ran her thumb over the surface as she heard her guardian's revelation.

"This belonged to your mother."

"My mother?" Taking half a step away from her guardian, she frowned. "You kept this from me?"

"No, dear. Your father informed me that she wanted it to be a wedding gift, but I never found it to be the right time. After hearing what you told me, I know now is the right time. I give this to you as a reminder of your mother and of God." She leaned over to press a gentle kiss to her ward's forehead. "I wish you the very best, child."

After this exchange, Christine hurried a goodbye and swore that she would do her utmost to visit again, her want to escape having strangely diminished with her growing weariness. She clutched her cross to her chest as she began to leave, only stopping to gather some spare pieces of clothing and special trinkets from her old room into a small suitcase. Lifting the cross up to her face, she kissed and stroked it lovingly, thinking of her mother and suddenly feeling stronger in its presence. Carefully wrapping the cross up in a shawl, she placed it in the case and closed the lid. It was not something she wished for Erik to ever see.

As soon as the front door had closed behind her, a burst of cold air hit Christine's face.

"You know," she flinched at the abrupt sound of Erik's voice in the darkness, "it makes me pity myself even more."

Dragging the suitcase with a grimace on her face, Christine resisted the urge to look for him and chastise the utterance which screamed of self-loathing. "What are you talking about?"

"Your conversation in there about me. What else?" She froze at the realisation that he had heard every word she had said. Anger flared up within her at his disregard for her privacy, but she could do nothing but stare at the pavement beneath her feet. "I always knew my love was unrequited and now after hearing you speak about the boy in such a manner, what glimmer of hope is there that you could possible love me?"

They had reached Caesar by now and Christine did not have time to say a single thing before Erik had lifted her onto the saddle. His focus fell to the suitcase and, chivalrously, he extended a hand towards it, wishing to secure it, but Christine did not move. She only stared at him in his acceptance of defeat with a pained heart.

"Erik, I am sorry." It was all she could say.

"Do not try to explain anything to me," he said before giving up on her relinquishing the case, mounting the horse himself and setting it into a trot. "I would do anything for you, Christine. __Anything__. I would and will do anything to make you mine... And that is why we shall not wed."

In her restrictive hold, Christine attempted to turn her head to face him. "You will not force me?"

"I will not force you," he confirmed and relief filled her tired body. His hands tightened around the reins, gloomily receptive of his fate and of his beloved's reluctance. "I have already been given the unthinkable gift of your consent to be my wife, but I know that the act itself is not feasible. I know now that I will take no wife," he whispered into the hood of the cloak, the material muffling his pained tone. "Your companionship is more than sufficient."

 _ _But I know it is not enough__ , she thought achingly as Caesar's hooves carried them back at a maddening pace.

When they arrived underground, Christine gave Erik a brief smile before heading to her bedchamber with her suitcase. She had barely taken two steps in the opposite direction when he had suddenly reached out and caught hold of her hand—another desperate act of reassurance. But upon noticing a shiver run through her, he immediately released that hand and strode down the corridor to his own bedchamber, slamming the door behind him and wishing nothing else than to shut the world out.


	5. Chapter 5

If Christine wanted one thing to come of the next morning, it was to be left alone. As she made her way towards the library, the events of last night finally caught up with her, and she was left with an inescapable bout of exhaustion. Her only comfort came from the small cross that now hung closely to her bosom and she was grateful for its pressure on her skin. In the unease of her slumber, the previous night had become something of a revelation. In the midst of silken hopes and crushed dreams, she had begun to imagine a life with Erik as his living bride. But the rising of the sun had all but obliterated that vision now and what was left remained unclear. She did not know what was to become of either of them, and not knowing terrified her, for if she did not live with him in matrimony, then what was her purpose?

Erik's library was filled with an array of books and, often stumped at what to choose, she decided to select the first one her fingers pried from the shelf and settle down with it. The title was unfamiliar but she read it in ignorance, delighting in the opportunity to escape her dreary realities for a few hours. She was not certain how much time had slipped by when a quiet echo began to drift through the walls. It teased and pulled at her as the distant strings built to a slow crescendo. Straightening herself up, she wondered where this sound could be coming from, and thought for one morbid moment that the silence had finally driven her mad _._

Rising from her seat, she listened intently, her ears eager for the sweet drone of the orchestra to continue and lull her into a state of content. The music was nothing more than a faint hum, but it was there nevertheless and it did not take her long to recognise that the piece was from Verdi's 'La Traviata'. It took even less time then to distinguish the vivacious tones of La Carlotta ringing down upon her. The diva's Spanish tongue had difficulty in digesting the Italian libretto, but even then, Christine almost laughed joyfully. She had heard tell of the fact that one could still hear music from inside the very bowels of the Opéra, and she felt tears spring to her eyes in being so close and yet so far from the one thing that managed to soothe her aching soul. She raised her head to the Heavens, suddenly wishing for wings to sprout forth and carry her up to the stage, back to where she belonged.

From the threshold of the door, not daring to enter lest he remove the serene expression from her face, Erik folded his arms across his chest and waited for the opportune moment to announce his presence. As his little love turned, he saw the corner of her mouth twitch into an adoring smile and he felt a pang of jealousy in his bitter heart. He could not recount how many times he had dreamt of her smiling up at him like that. To make her smile and to make her happy—it was all he wanted.

It had almost been unbearable to see her lovely wedding gown crumpled into a discarded and unwanted heap outside her bedchamber. But he had gathered the cloth into his arms, pathetically cradling it as he stroked and petted the veil, before removing it from sight forever. Consumed by suppressed and irritable longing, he had laid awake that night, pining for her kind eyes to be there when he awoke.

"Listen to how that woman butchers the libretto. I don't know why I didn't dispose of her when I had the chance."

His unexpected voice had grounded her, bringing her roughly down to earth again, and Christine turned to him with eyes wide in horror. "Do not say that! You cannot mean what you say."

"I'm merely teasing," he replied dryly.

"I do not care whether or not you were teasing, you should not joke about these things at all. It isn't funny."

"Come now, do not tell me that you would not want rid of her if given the opportunity." With a hideous smile plastered on his face, he entered the room slowly. Out of the corner of Christine's eye, she noticed that he was keeping very much to the walls. Not knowing what to say, she simply gave a shrug of her shoulders, her mind wandering to the stage again.

Perhaps it would have been too forward to ask for visiting privileges, but the more she stayed down here, the more she craved the sunlight. She he had had her first outing the day before, but it was only a fragment of the freedom she needed.

"I wish to return," she blurted out, not waiting to gauge his reaction before continuing. "I wish to return to the world above, Erik, please. I can't bear to live like this."

"Return?" Erik repeated. There was not one trace of anger in his voice, but Christine's nervous disposition did not fade in its absence. "Why would you wish to return so soon? Are you not at home down here? Have you already grown tiresome of me?"

"No," she hastily reassured him, sensing the tension that had begun to radiate from him. She did not want to provoke his anger, but this was a subject that she needed to pursue. Her gaze dropped to his approaching feet as those piercing black eyes burned with the memory of the ghost within. "I only wish to return to the stage. Please, may I be allowed to attend rehearsals once more?"

"No. You belong down here, with me."

Christine raised her eyes and stumbled towards him with a look of pure desperation on her face. "What if I attended but I only watched, unnoticed and unseen from the shadows?" She hesitated, biting her lip. "Would it please you then?"

Something unrecognisable flashed in Erik's eyes before he swiftly turned his back to her. "Why this sudden longing, Christine?"

"It is not sudden, at all," she said, glancing away from his rigid back to stare into the fire, watching the flames dance and twist round one another. "You, of all people, should know my desire to sing, to be on the stage again. If you remove that from my life then you have removed a part of me."

"But why must you be on the stage to sing?" he hissed, digging his fingertips into the backs of his hands to try to stifle his growing insecurity and frustration. "You are perfectly capable of singing down here and you can do so whenever you wish."

She did not want to argue with him but she would not bow down so easily. Slipping her hand off the mantel piece, she let it fall against her skirts, limp and tired, before facing him. "I need my freedom, Erik," she murmured simply, a compassionate smile on her lips. "I need to feel as though I can be myself still and that you are able to trust me to do so. I do not want to change myself to suit your wishes and I think that, deep down, you would agree with me. _You_ may be content living down here, but I certainly am not."

"Content?" Though her soft pleas had already settled in his heart, Erik could not ignore her false thoughts. "Content, is that what you think, Christine? Do you think I take perverse pleasure in living down here, that I enjoy it, that I would choose to be here next to anywhere else? No, I stay down here because I have to."

"You are the only thing standing in your way! Nothing else is stopping you."

Releasing a shaky laugh, Erik squeezed his nails into his palm, sadistically wishing to draw blood from his body so that he might show her how much he had suffered, how much he was still suffering. "You know nothing of the world," he spat.

"I am not a child," she said gently, her focus floating down to take in his trembling fists. "I know what the world is capable of, but I want to show you that there is still some good in it." Tentatively, she took a step forward. "Come with me. Let me show you that you have nothing to fear."

But Erik did not make an effort to move from his fixed position, instead deciding to stare at her. For a long while, she waited patiently for a reply, for any sign of acknowledgement, of acceptance, an agreement, of something. Shifting her weight to her other foot, she stared at the floor, mute failure flooding her mind and heart. Risking a look up at him, she pleaded, "please... if you love me at all, please."

A single breath had passed before Erik had closed the distance between them and raised his hands to wrap his skeletal fingers around the tops of her arms. He wondered how she brave she must be to use his weakness for her against him, but she did so in ignorance. She knew nothing of him, nor of his feelings or lifestyle. She did not understand any of it, but how badly he wanted her to! Lowering his head, he regarded her for several moments, his eyes looking, searching, their pain barely masked within their own blackness. "Of course I love you!" he cried, almost pushing her away as he released her. "Do you doubt my devotion? You must doubt it. Why else would you use it to blackmail me for your own personal gain? I would do anything you ask of me, don't you understand that?"

Wary of his flighty behaviour, she was careful not to shy away from him, nor move any closer until she was sure of his stability. "If that is true," she began, "then why do you deny me this?"

Stumbling backwards, he turned his back on her, his hand running through his thin air as he began to process her words. "I... I will grant you your request, but only on one condition."

"And what is that?" she asked, finding the strength to walk forward until she was standing behind him.

When he finally spoke his voice came out timid and unusually quiet, and Christine felt herself straining to hear him. "I would wish for something in return. A... A kiss." As his head began to shake fiercely, Christine gulped and watched as his shoulders became hunched, tension rippling through his back like stormy waves. "Oh, I shouldn't have asked!" he cried dismally. "You needn't do that for me. No one has ever done that for me. I shall... I shall take you above ground regardless. I... Oh, forgive me."

He twisted his head slightly in her direction, as if to say something more, but decided against it and stayed facing away from her. Steadying herself, Christine tentatively reached for his shoulder, gently turning him round to face her. His head was drooped but she could still feel his eyes flickering up to look at her every so often. With her free hand she hesitantly cupped his bony chin, resisting the urge to wince at the lack of flesh and fat that should have been there, and raised his head slowly. His ragged breaths tickled her skin as she carefully leaned in towards him and pressed her lips to his masked cheek. A shudder ran through him, as if he had truly been able to feel her touch beneath the barrier, before he quickly pulled his head away. Though her hand remained in the air for a moment, she smiled shyly at him, hoping that he was pleased.

"Thank you," he whispered hoarsely, staggering back a few steps and then clearing his throat. "As promised, I will take you to watch the rehearsals later in the afternoon. I will come and call on you when we are ready to leave."

Giving him one last smile, Christine nodded and slipped past him, heading towards her bedchamber for some much earned rest. Had she glanced back behind her, she would have seen his tender eyes watching her leave. She would have seen how rapidly his chest heaved at the memory of her kiss, his very first kiss, and she would have also seen his trembling hand rising to ghost over his cheek as he fell to the ground, sobbing.

o0o

Within those few hours of waiting, Christine dreamt of her father and awoke with heavy eyes. Her fingers grabbed the sheets to wrap them tightly around her shivering body, imagining the warm embrace of her dear departed parent in its stead. She did not lay there for long as her thoughts were interrupted by a tap at the door. Time had once again passed her by almost unknowingly and shaking her mind clear, she reluctantly pushed herself up onto her elbows and yawned.

"Christine, are you ready?"

She widened her sleep driven features and cursed at herself. Dissatisfied with the way her hair was sitting under her inspection, she hurried over to her mirror to try to appease her sudden vanity. Ignoring the dark circles surrounding her eyes, she huffed and grabbed her hairbrush, but, remembering that Erik was still waiting at the door, she soon gave up on taming her knots and chose instead to smooth out her dress.

"Christine?" Another impatient tap at the door. "Did you hear me?"

"Yes!" she called, fixing the last of the creases. "I will be out in a moment."

Behind the door Erik grumbled something under his breath, but Christine paid him no attention. With one last look in the mirror she strolled over to the latch and opened it, seeing Erik leaning up against the adjacent wall with his head hung low. He greeted her with a nod and motioned for her to follow him through his underground domain. As she trailed behind him in the tunnels, she tried to determine just how large this dark labyrinth was.

Erik, meanwhile, kept his want to guide her by hand at bay. His skin was aflame with the suppressed desire to hold her, but she had already given him more than he could have ever asked for in a single day. Even after relinquishing her of his request, she had so very kindly bestowed to him his first kiss. To be so close to the woman he loved was intoxicating, but to not be in a position to hold her was infuriating _._ He burned for her, so intensely that he hoped that the flames of his love would engulf him long before Christine would inevitably tear out his heart.

She was so caught up in her own thoughts that she did not notice Erik's precipitous halt which resulted in her bumping into him. She whispered a quick apology and then looked to the wall in front of them.

"A dead end?" she said, glancing around them in confusion. "Did we take a wrong turn?"

Erik said nothing but brushed his fingers along the cold stone, creating patterns along the rough surface. Christine edged a little closer, intrigued, but he was then ushering her further forward with a flick of his finger. Obeying, she watched with fascination as he pushed his hand against one piece of stone, jumping back only slightly when the wall miraculously slid open. Not wanting to waste any more time in these dingy halls, Christine edged her way through the small opening. She looked back to where they had entered from and saw no trace of the slit in the wall, but was startled to find herself surrounded by familiar red furnishings.

"My box is too close to the stage," he explained upon seeing her frown. "This one is at a suitable distance, but you can harness an understanding of what it is like to see the stage through my eyes."

Christine stayed close to the wall as she peered through the curtain and saw the bustle of cast members on the stage, as frantic and as regimented as the usual traffic on the Parisian streets outside. "Thank you, Erik," she said, rubbing her hand against the soft fabric of the curtain, itching to part it as Moses did the Red Sea and make the pilgrimage to freedom.

"I do not deserve your gratitude," he whispered at last, but when she began to say more on the subject, he silenced her with a finger to his lips until he redirected it towards the stage.

Christine stared down and saw instantly what he was pointing at. With her footwear making one dreadful clunk after the other, La Carlotta was prancing abut the stage, screeching at a few poor chorus members as they dared to cross her path. Oh, to have felt the diva's wrath, Christine thought, amused. She recognised Monsieur Gautier, the stage director, along with a few others who shuffled their way through the monstrous props and scenery, trying to get to their positions while avoiding Carlotta's unpremeditated anger. The music for Violetta's aria, _Ah Forse Lui_ , soon began and both silent spectators, hidden by shadow, listened to it with eyes closed.

Without thinking, a smile curled over Christine's face until she suddenly leaned forward and wrapped her fingers around Erik's. He flinched at the contact, and remained frozen as she squeezed his hand once before letting go. Her attention turned back to the rehearsals below, but Erik stared in bewilderment at her. His lips parted to speak, to shower praise and worship upon her, when he saw a change come about her aura. The smile on her mouth faded and the grip she had on the curtains tightened as though she feared the ground would slip from beneath her feet. Erik followed her line of sight and saw precisely what had caused this changed, or rather _who_ had caused it. He would have recognised that blonde head of hair anywhere.

Monsieur Gautier turned to the approaching man with a welcoming smile, extending his hand. "Ah, what a pleasant surprise! To what to do we owe the pleasure, Monsieur le Vicomte?"


	6. Chapter 6

Any brief hope that may have been embedded within Christine's approaching shout vanished as soon as a strong hand had clamped itself over her mouth. She should have known better than to try to scream. Her arms flailed around her head, hitting and clawing at the fingers on her face that reminded her more of bars on a prison window, until Erik's arm came to wrap itself round her stomach. Her hands were pinned to her sides now and she squirmed against his attempts to drag her farther into the darkness of the box

"Christine, don't do this," he commanded sharply and through her struggles she could sense a trace of despair to his words, a singular trace that made her pause and think. Was his trust in her so lacking that he would treat her like a prisoner or a victim? She had made a promise to stay by his side, but her honour had apparently proven unsuitable to him, and that hurt her more than anything could have then.

After a few uncomfortable moments of struggling, Christine finally ceased her movements, becoming as solid as stone in Erik's arms. His attention alternated between her and the strained conversation below them, but all Christine could hear was the raggedness of Erik's breathing behind her. Soon, he released her arms, but forced her to face the angular and unfriendly mask that glared down at her. She had to catch herself from imagining Raoul's round face in place of it.

"This was a horrible idea. We could have been seen. You could have been seen!" he hissed under his breath. "I was a fool, an utter fool to not comprehend the possibility of Chagny coming here!" Even in the darkness Christine could see something unholy flaring in his eyes. "But no," he mocked, "I was too busy being vigilant to your every whim, too busy wishing to make you happy, too busy trying to... _Ah_ ," he added, his voice sounding startlingly childlike. "Is that why you wanted to come up here? That's it, isn't it? You knew that he would be here, didn't you? You used me to get to him. Oh, Christine, do you ever spare a genuine thought for my feelings at all? Is there even room in that mind of yours for me?"

Christine refrained from answering such an accusative question, knowing that more insults and insinuations would only be hurled at her if tried. Instead, she chose to ready herself, pressing her palms flat-out against the wall just for the sake of feeling something supportive, only then to have her wrist snatched at.

"We are leaving."

She stared at him, affronted by his sudden action. "No," she protested, shifting all of her weight backwards in an attempt to make him stop. "I do not wish to leave," she exclaimed, trying to look through the curtain to see if she could catch a small glimpse of Raoul again. But without a second warning, Erik took the liberty of dragging her through the passageway entrance, which now stood open. Christine stumbled over the material of her dress as they fled, only to be saved by the sharp tug of a bony hand.

"Watch where you are going," he growled, releasing her momentarily to close the passage behind him.

"Take me back, Erik," she implored, knowing that if she were to close her eyes it would not have made a difference in these corridors. How she longed to be somewhere else, away from his wrath! "You promised!"

"So did you!" he cried, and she did not need to ask to know what he had meant by those words. "You and I are going to have a little talk when we return home."

Erik's intemperate frustration had not calmed but only increased when they had finally reached the fifth cellar. Christine longed to hide herself away in the safety of her room and wait until his temper had soothed, but she was obliged to stay and listen. He paced back and forth, as he so often did, which always succeeded in making her more nervous. The hands behind his back occasionally twitched as his mouth pulled into a thin line.

"If you so much as look at Chagny next time, then... no, there will not even be a next time. This will not happen again."

"What are you saying?" she asked shakily, not wanting him to, but daring him to say the words directly from his own lips, and her entire body tensed in anticipation.

"You will no longer be allowed to go anywhere where you could be a liability for the eyes of Chagny. I will not permit it. You will remain here with me and only me." He strode up to her frozen figure, but every move he made was a feigned display of confidence and authority. Inside, he trembled like a child lost in a wood. "Do I make myself clear?"

She should have held her tongue but when his eyes began to roam her face, almost taunting a contradiction out of her, she found herself incapable of staying silent. "How do you expect me to care for you when you control everything I do? Have you even considered how I must feel when you use me as a way to release your anger?"

Behind the mask, his eyes turned cloudy with resentment. "I always consider how you feel," he spat. "Not like you, my evasive, little songbird. I asked you earlier if you think of my feelings, and I must ask you again. Do you? Do you understand what I am feeling?"

Christine whispered that she did, hoping that it was the truth, but she knew that her knowledge of this man could only bring her so far. His past was a mystery and whenever she attempted to discover more, he would rebuke her efforts, leaving untold details and anecdotes in the air for her to catch. But it was an absurd task. She could not catch them for they were like smoke—intangible and obscured and impossible to contain. His life was nothing more than a just a series of blank pages waiting to be filled in.

"The only emotion you seem to derive is pity," he said snidely.

Christine stared bitterly at him and watched with disgust as he returned to his brooding abode on the piano bench. He ran his fingers lightly over the keys, not pressing down to make any sound but simply basking in the mere touch of them. It brought him a small amount of peace even as he mourned the knowledge that his beloved would never love him the way he loved her.

Touching her chest, Christine traced the outline of her cross before begrudgingly moving her feet towards the direction of the pianoforte. Her heart went out to him at that moment and gazing down in candlelight, he made quite the morbid picture. Heartbroken, his head hung low and his desire to play was gone. She thought about placing her hand on top of his shoulder before ultimately deciding against it.

"Why?" he whispered as the aching silence continued to torture him.

"I love Raoul." She saw his fingers flex at the mention of his name, but nothing more. "You cannot force me to care. You must give me time."

"Time," he mused sadly. "I've had too much of it." He dropped his hands to his knees and turned his head slightly towards her. "Do you think you would have loved me if I had not been born with this face?"

"Do you think that I still care about what your face looks like?" she retorted. "I have told you often enough that it does not frighten me anymore. Why can you not accept that?"

A ghost of a smile played at his mouth. "One who has spent their life being rejected and hated cannot be expected to forgive and forget so easily." He rested his fingers on the keys and he began to play an unnamed sonata, its melancholic tones reflecting the pain within. "I do not suppose you will ever understand, or even if you want to understand."

"I do want to understand," she reassured him and boldly reached down, gently enfolding his hands in hers. "If you will let me."

Making no attempt to reply, Erik simply pulled his hands from her warming touch and continued playing the sad piece that now echoed his heart's longings. She stepped back, watching him, before swiftly heading to her bedchamber. She had not made it very far when she heard his whisper float through the darkness and latch onto her soul. Her eyes closed to stop her tears from falling for she knew that she could not return the words of love he spoke. Deciding she could not bear to stay in his presence any longer, she rushed into her room, closing the door as quietly as she could behind her. She leaned her head against the frame before she collected herself enough to sit at her vanity table. There, she grabbed her hairbrush and mechanically tugged at her hair, the mindless monotony of it helping to distract her. But it was then that she finally knew she could not leave him. He had made sacrifices for her happiness and she knew that she was obliged to return those sentiments. These past few weeks now seemed so minuscule to her and, looking back, she knew that she had acted selfishly. She supposed though, in a way, it was child's play. It was deadly, the game they played—they were always running, always waiting the claiming touch of their pursuer. But she had run far and for long enough. It was time to stop running and confront her future.

Placing the hairbrush down, she scrambled about her room, trying to find paper and ink. Having found some, she picked up a few sheets of paper and made quick work of the quill as she began to write. She had to believe that this was the easiest way.

It read as follows:

'My dearest Raoul,

Where do I begin? I imagine a simple thank you would not be sufficient to describe the gratitude I feel towards you. During these past few months, you have been a loving friend and confidant in my hours of need and I thank you for that.

Know that my time with you has brought me nothing but happiness, though now I wish that you had never come to the Opéra, had never seen me on stage and had never walked into my dressing room that night. It was on that night that everything changed, but I never meant for you to be mixed up in this. Never.

Perhaps we acted rather foolishly and recklessly. Although, who could blame us? People do strange things when they are in love and even though we must move on, you will always have a place in my heart.

But we cannot pretend that we are children still, Raoul.

It is for this reason that I must ask you to free yourself from any feelings you have towards me. I know it will be hard, but I must do it too, and you deserve better, Raoul, so much better. Please do this one last request for me and then you do not have to do anything for me ever again. I have been nothing but trouble for you from the very beginning. Things have gone from good to bad since you entered my life and, though it pains me to say this, you must forget me. I ask you to find someone who will love you without any complications.

I cannot leave him, not ask questions if you do not want the answers.

And please, do not worry for my sake. I am completely aware of what I am asking of you.

Yours cordially,

Christine Daaé'

The quill slid from her fingers, its soft landing sounding more like a pounding in her ears as she rested her head in her hands and stared at the letter. She read and re-read her words, wanting to cry, needing to cry—later, she told herself—before she slipped the paper into an envelope and left the room.

Erik had not moved from his place at the pianoforte, his hands still bent over the keys in a frenzy. His playing never faltered as she neared him, although she was certain that he could sense her. Carefully watching her footing across the floor, which was now oddly strewn with his music, she made her way slowly towards him and paused when she reached his side, holding out the envelope.

"What is that?" he asked irritably, not looking at her.

"It is a letter," she replied, gripping the little piece of paper tighter in an attempt to calm her nerves. "A letter to Raoul."

It was then that he ceased his playing and glanced at the object in her hands. Drawing in a stagnant breath, she urged her feet to move closer, silently telling him to take it. Before she could comprehend what was happening, Erik had snatched the note from her fingertips and withdrawn to the other side of the room. She gasped as a chill ran down her arm from where his fingers had brushed against hers.

Unsure of what to do now that he had procured his goal, Erik held the note up, studying at it from all corners, looking at it as though he had never seen the likes of it before. Bitterness soon began to stir within the pit of his stomach, brewing slowly like a storm waiting to unleash its fury. He stared at the paper so intensely that Christine was almost worried that his eyes alone would be enough to make it burst into flames.

"A love letter?"

"No," she corrected wearily with a shake of her head. "Read it for yourself if you do not believe me."

"Hmm," he said, the sound rolling off his tongue in a lethargic growl. "You would want me to read it, wouldn't you? You would want me to endure your pretty words."

"Read it for yourself and find out," she repeated quietly, turning her back to him, her arms wrapping protectively around herself. Closing her eyes, she waited until she heard a coy rustling behind her before she finally found the will to breathe again.

Silence ensued until he spoke, his tone thick with uncertainty. "Do you mean what you say here, that you... that you will not leave?"

Tilting her head to the side as she peered over her shoulder, Christine looked at this peculiar man and saw his anxieties and his hopes all at once. "Yes," she whispered into the fabric of her sleeve, and she knew that she meant it, but beneath her confidence and determination lay something darker, more worrisome—an undercurrent of fear. In staying, she had sealed her fate and she could only pray that God would give her the strength to survive this and to give Erik what he truly deserved.

o0o

After hours of droning solitude, Christine's stomach groaned to be fed—a noise which finally compelled her to move, giving her a reason to escape the walls of her room. Timidly, she crept through the door, peering around at the emptiness around her. Had these halls always been so large and barren, she wondered. There was no sign of Erik as she continued onwards to the kitchen; there was not even the faintest hint of music upon the air. Christine had never known silence to be so deafening, and a pang of loneliness struck her heart as the rhythmic swish of her skirts played her through the corridor.

Stepping over the threshold to the kitchen, she saw with surprise that a bowl of soup had already been laid out on the table, as if waiting for her, innocently perched in front of one of the chairs. The wondrous steam which rose up teased her nose and taste buds as she walked over and rested the points of her fingertips on the dark wood, staring down at the bowl in enticement and curiosity. Her gaze stayed on it for a moment longer before she glanced across the table to see, yet again, that she was to dine alone tonight.

Something about that measly, empty chair was so distressing that it had Christine glancing away from it in a mixture of disdain and sadness. Redirecting her attention to the broth, she furrowed her brow before fetching another bowl and spoon from the cupboard and laying them out opposite her own place setting. Carefully, so as not to burn her hands, she then picked up her own bowl and proceeded to pour the overabundance of liquid into the second one. Nodding briefly at her work, she smoothed her dress skirts out and walked back through the halls.

"Erik?" she asked to the empty space. "Could you come here please?"

When no reply came, Christine breathed a sigh of disappointment before heading back to the kitchen. It was no wonder then that she nearly jumped out of her skin when she collided with the well pressed stiffness of his evening suit.

"You called, Mademoiselle," Erik said calmly, acting the ever dutiful servant.

With her chest heaving, Christine glared at him and his apparent delight over startling her. "Do not do that!" she scolded as she placed a hand over her heart to steady its frantic beat.

"My apologies," he said, his inward amusement fading to dulled guilt as he took in her reaction. Wishing to pursue other subjects and to take both of their minds off of his teasing, he asked, "What was it that you wanted?"

Lowering her hand to her side, she huffed in defeat. "I wish for you to dine with me," she said, her request suddenly sounding less desirable than before.

"Ah," he said slowly as though his tongue had difficulty in forming his words. "I am afraid that I must decline."

"But I have set out another place for you," she explained quickly.

At this, he tilted his head. "Why?"

"It is lonely eating alone. It would make me happy if you were to join me."

Although Erik's mind screamed at him to object, to walk away from her, the prospect of his presence causing her happiness and easing her desolation was far too tempting a prospect. With a nod of his head, he complied and trudged along with heavy footsteps, following her to the kitchen. Christine stood in front of her chair, wearing a tiny, yet triumphant smile on her lips as she gestured for him to sit. She did not hesitate then to plunge her spoon into the hot liquid. She devoured it quickly, not wanting to waste any more time in soothing the ache in her stomach.

Her silent companion was not so forthcoming. With one hand fisted next to his spoon, Erik stared at the utensil as one would a mathematical problem. He sat rigidly in his seat, a slick sweat forming underneath his mask at the undesirable thought of someone seeing him eat. He did not know whether to feel angry or betrayed over her asking him to dine with her. Christine knew that he would never deny her, the conniving little vixen, and as this realisation began to dawn on him like the first rays of the morning sun, his chest tightened, his fingers curling inwards to dig themselves into his palm. He was allowing her to take advantage of him. But what was more troubling was that when the constriction did not cease, Erik did not mind in the slightest, and he could have laughed at himself.

"Please eat."

The sudden softness in her lulling voice startled him and he looked up to see her lovely eyes on his form. "This is your dinner," he said, his own eyes darting around the room. "It is not mine. I made it for you. I would not dare to intrude on your meal."

A small, short noise resonated from the back of her throat, a quiet, muffled sound that one would make when trying to ignore a slander to one's name. "I was only trying to be kind."

Guilt flowed through his body, as fuelling and as driving as his own blood, and he found himself gazing at her, observing and learning her patterns. How she would dip her spoon down, blow on the liquid, and every time the warmth of the broth entered her mouth, her expression would yield and her lips would curl up just a little in contentment. He was glad to be the cause of this, but all the while he kept remembering her earlier words, that eating with her would make her happy. Of course the thought that she was lying had already crossed his mind, but he did not wish to believe it. He only wanted to believe the good in her, to trust in her and her endearing words. He could not possibly think ill of her when she had requested his company and now sat across from him, so beautiful in her domesticity, as any wife would her husband.

It was this thought alone that had Erik finally reaching for the spoon. Looking up from her bowl, Christine marvelled at the strange sight and as she watched him slyly, she realised the magnitude of her accomplishment. He was clearly uncomfortable and yet he ate. She wanted to make him as comfortable as possible, but she did not want to get into another heated discussion about his mask, not while she was trying to have a civilised moment with him.

Returning to her soup, Christine turned her thoughts towards other things. "When will you deliver the letter?" she asked gingerly.

"Tomorrow," he informed her as he uninterestedly poured a spoonful of liquid back into the bowl, a grimace on the lower part of his face.

A part of her nearly wept at this news for she had not anticipated the letter would be sent so soon. But the longer she thought on this, the more she knew that it was for the best. She continued to eat in silence, the weight of the matter still lying about the air.

Mere minutes later, Erik began to cough.

It had started lightly, as though he had simply swallowed the soup the wrong way. It was easy to dispel any concern of Christine's at this point, but Erik knew what was to come, and yet he did nothing, choosing instead to remain seated like an obedient child who had been told to finish every mouthful of dinner on his plate before he could move. But he could feel it building inside of him, burning quickly like a flame on a wick. Still, he managed to trap a few coughs by gritting his teeth and tensing his muscles so much that they caused him greater pain than the coughs would have done. Thankfully, Christine did not seem to notice as she picked up her empty bowl and spoon and began to clear up.

But very soon he could not hold it back any longer. When he next opened his mouth, a series of coughs erupted from his chest—hoarse and heavy and horrible—and seconds later he collapsed to the floor, his head low in shame as he spluttered next to his overturned chair. A sudden smash echoed through the room and a small shard of something landed close to his hand. It was a broken fragment from Christine's bowl. He did not have time to process anything else for then she was at his side, rubbing her hands along his back, trying to soothe his shudders as she fluttered about his form with all the frantic movements of a bird. Her attempts, though pure at heart, did not work. His coughing only increased and he weakly shoved her away when he began to gag.

Closing his eyes, Erik tried not to think about there being another in the room with him. It was disgraceful, for her to see him so weak and so vulnerable. She should not have been there, she should have fled, but she stayed and she stared.

A startled cry escaped through her lips as Erik emptied his stomach. She desperately wanted to comfort him, but whenever she tried to get closer she found her senses becoming overpowered by that vile stench. All she could do was turn away in disgust, both at the atrocious sight and at herself.

When his heaving eventually slowed and Erik had opened his eyes, he felt his stomach churn once again at the mess he had made. Breathing deeply, he tried to stand up, his body quivering and his legs weakening. Using the side of the table for support, he struggled to raise himself up and onto his feet, but his legs were all but useless now, giving way beneath him as he fell to his knees. He hissed at the harshness of the cold ground, but soon all he felt was a sudden pressure on one side of his body. Peering to his left, he was stunned to see Christine urgently positioning herself under his arm, helping to support his weight as she pulled him to his feet.

"Don't," he whispered, shaking his head in thorough humiliation.

Too exhausted to protest further, he leaned heavily on her as she miraculously managed to drag him through to the living room, carefully holding onto him until he was able to place himself down on the settee. She asked him patiently if he had a bucket to which he weakly pointed towards a small door on the opposing wall. Nodding, she first went to collect some cushions and blankets from her bedchamber before coming back to retrieve the bucket.

Pulling his body up slightly so that she could arrange the cushions behind him, Christine proceeded to wrap him up in one of her own silken sheets and endured his protests as he claimed that he did not wish to spoil the material with his illness. Simply ignoring this, she handed him the bucket. In her short lifetime, she had come face to face with a handful of grim illness, but she was able to tackle the extremities of most with a sense of professionalism that many her age lacked. It was second nature, she supposed.

After dutifully cleaning the kitchen floor, Christine left Erik to rest a while before returning silently to check on him. Approaching him with uneven breaths, she felt her taut muscles relaxing as she saw him resting soundly still, his eyes closed, but not in sleep, and his mask knocked slightly out of place by the position of his slumped head. Kneeling on the floor next to him, she studied his quiet demeanour, how much of a change had overcome him in the few hours since the encounter at the Opéra.

"Are you feeling any better?" she inquired, all too aware of the smell which now hung about the room as she watched warily as he attempted to sit up.

"Yes," he murmured.

"What caused this?" she asked, concern dripping in every word, her body poised for a sudden relapse.

A sigh escaped his dry mouth and he clutched at his throat, rubbing it as he tried to quench the burning sensation inside. "It can vary... Sometimes it does not appear... Sometimes it occurs every few months."

Christine straightened, her eyes growing wide in pity. "This happens often?"

He grunted in response and then said, "I am quite used to it. I... cannot say exactly what the cause is... but sometimes when I eat certain foods—" Another cough sounded from deep within his chest and she was quick to bend over him, trying to quiet him with her touch. "No," he said, wincing at the feel of her soothing hand on his back. "I do not wish to be a burden."

"Nonsense, and try not to talk, Erik," she chided, speaking to him as though he were a child, before kneeling beside him once more. "Shall I sing to you? Would you like that?"

He nodded weakly, turning his head completely away from her, wishing to dive into her dulcet tones and lay there until he was consumed. Christine inhaled as deeply as she could, attempting to avoid as much of the smell as possible, and began to sing a quiet lullaby. Though her words were sentimental and laced with gentleness, a frown soon formed on her face as she thought over Erik's explanation. A rush of ignited guilt rushed over her, pulling her down into the depths of her sadness.

She was the one who had made him dine with her. She was the one who had forced him to eat. Could it have been her fault; had she unwittingly driven him to wallow in his own pain?

"Erik, Erik," she crooned when the lullaby ended, resting her head on her blanket. "God forgive me."

* * *

 **A/N: The illness which Erik suffers here is called Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome.**


	7. Chapter 7

Knowing all too well she had to endure his whines and protests, Christine urged Erik to stay put on the settee until he was fully rested, but, being the infuriating man that he was, he was up and about before she could even get another stern word in against him. Nevertheless, she surveyed him closely, watching for any abnormalities in his stance or mood—any more than usual, that is—that would otherwise indicate a lapse in his health.

There was one other matter, however, that would not let her alone. The business of the letter. She had requested for Erik not to tell her when he was planning on delivering it and he had respectfully agreed. To make sure that she did not fret, he had made the point of leaving his home frequently throughout the day so she would not know when he was going to deliver it. His efforts were appreciated, but did little in helping to calm her.

Every time he would disappear, Christine was left to brace her nerves and she would think of her dear Raoul and how he would react upon reading the letter. It was a thought that would not leave her mind, but she prayed that he would have the sense not to make the dangerous journey underground to confront his rival again. Her choice had been made and they would have to learn to accept it. Torn either way and begrudgingly amenable, this was her life now, and they would all have to learn to live with it.

There was one undeniable fact that Erik found hard to swallow, and that was absolutely nothing would ever stop her from allowing Raoul to live on in her thoughts. There, her dear friend would never age, nor tire of her company or conversation. It was rather pathetic, having secrets locked away inside herself, and visiting old friends and places—those which she could only hope to see again—in imaginary scenarios. She felt trapped within her own life, like a character trying to break free of the pages to which they were bound.

After receiving no reply in regards to his plans to leave, Erik looked to his pale and distant companion and tentatively approached her. She did not shy from him as he stopped, but dully noted that the sickly remnants of his illness still clung to the exposed skin of his face and neck. Not twenty-four hours ago, he had been too weak to even stand lest he keel over, and although he stood before her as if nothing had happened, Christine could not bear to meet his eye.

"Are you all right?" he asked, and she was aghast at how he simply pretended that his illness was blameless. She murmured a reply but did not speak of her guilt, nor of the sinking feeling that had come over her. Heavy limbs lined her frame and she felt that as soon as Erik crossed the threshold to the world above, she would let the darkness swallow her.

She saw his hands twitch towards her as if he had meant to touch her, to hold her, to perhaps even console her. How laughable, she thought. It was not she who needed it, and if he truly intended to reach out for her, she would move away. In the end, he simply squeezed his fingers into his palm and drew them behind his back where they remained. His cloak washed a chill over her skin as he left.

The house—in the most unusual sense of the word—seemed very large and empty now. If yesterday was any indication for Christine, she was certain that one day she would go mad from that aching silence that filled these halls. Bundled away underground, without so much as a window or clock, there needed to be sound in order to dispel this madness. Even the rustling of paper or the monotonous clunk from Erik's shoes would have placated her.

Drifting over to the pianoforte, her fingers were eager to run along the keys of black and white. She spread several of them and experimentally pressed down, a disjointed chord immediately ringing in her ears as the harsh discourse disturbed the eerie atmosphere. The echo intrigued her and she was reminded of those strange and inexplicable noises that startled characters in the horror stories she heard so often when she was a young girl.

Her hand unconsciously moved towards her cross.

o0o

A deep satisfaction had coursed through Erik as he had deposited her letter, a small tingle running through the tips of fingers as the paper fell from his hands. Inside it, he had taken the liberty to place the Vicomte's ring—a small token, a final gesture from him to seal the lovers' separation.

It was a miracle that Christine did not hate him, did not curse the very ground that he walked on. He would worship at her feet if only she would let him—and for as little as simply staying by his side! Though pleased with her choice to distance herself from the boy, a bitter myriad of self-loathing and repulsion had begun to resonate through his veins. After all, he had no right to keep the lovers apart, no right to inflict a life of seclusion and solitude on his beloved. She had chosen him, but she deserved so much more than the dismal life he had to offer.

"Christine?" he called out, entering his home swiftly as his eyes adjusted to the low light of the candles. Determined to brighten her eyes again, to return a fragment of that spark to her soul, he quickly hung up his cloak and set off in search of her. "Christine? We shall fill this house with music, won't that be nice? Come into the music room and I shall play for you."

A flash of white in his peripheral vision stopped him in his tracks. Christine was sat at the pianoforte, staring at the silent instrument with an unreadable expression on her face. In an instant he was by her side. He whispered her name, trying to coax her out of her unshakable trance.

Taking a deep breath, he watched as her eyes fell to the candelabra resting atop the lid. The flames cast deep shadows over their bodies and she seemed to flinch at the renewed sight of them. Erik narrowed his eyes, taking in her appearance for the first time that evening. Her eyes were red, but her features were rigid; the time for weeping had passed her by, but its dreadful after effects still remained. In the back of his memory, he recalled the times when he was nothing more than a voice to her, when he would spot her crying from a hidden spot in the theatre's rafters. Anger would rise within him and he would want nothing more than to crush the spirits of anyone who had brought her to such a pitiful state. Sometimes, she would even weep in the shelter of her dressing room and with only the mirror glass separating them, Erik was able to comfort his protégée from afar. But there was nothing separating them now and Erik was only a man, a man who did not know how to comfort a woman who trembled in silence.

A celestial being may have once quenched her appetite for solace but it was no longer acceptable. If she were to truly keep her word and stay with Erik, she needed him to be more than what he was. What she needed the most was stability.

"May I sit with you?" he asked, dreading rejection and fearing a welcome invitation. He almost forgot to move his feet forward when Christine gave the smallest of nods and shuffled across the bench. He sat stiffly at her side and braced his hands against his knees, catching her looking at him from the corner of his eye. "Christine," he said softly. "I do not like seeing you like this. Tell Erik what he can do, please. Tell him what he can do to make you smile. I do long to see you smile. Shall I play for you? Would you like that? Christine, please say something. There is no need to worry so anymore. Now that the boy is out of the way, we can—"

"Must you refer to him like that?" she hissed suddenly, her hands balling into fists in her lap. "He is always 'the boy' with you. He has a name, Erik, though I do not recall you ever saying it."

"How else would I refer to him?" Erik said, taken aback by her onslaught of rage. "He almost took you away from me. I have nothing to thank him for."

"But you do! You have at least one thing to thank him for."

He chuckled darkly—Lord, how she loathed that laugh!—and tilted his head to the side. "And what would that be?" he said, his question very much a challenge. "The fame that I have garnered from stealing his fiancée away? The luxury of confining myself to the underworld?" As he spoke, a part of him mourned the loss of opportunity that had slipped through his fingers. He had not sought to aggravate her—only comfort her!—and now he could not help the sneer that curled around his words so naturally he could hardly recognise his voice. "I have nothing to thank him for."

With a slight grit to her teeth, Christine raised her head in retaliation, her eyes narrowing to slits. "Oh, but you do, Erik," she said quietly. "Without him, you would never have had the audacity to show yourself to me that night."

And for the first time in their acquaintance, she had succeeded in rendering him speechless.

In the deadly silence which followed, Christine was certain that she could hear the heavy thump of her own heart; it made her fingers throb. Erik turned to stare at the keys before them, the muscles in his jaw clenching.

"That is not true."

"Don't lie to me," she retorted, "or to yourself. Your façade hurt me more than anything else. You, Monsieur, are no angel."

Already weary from her unspoken accusations, Erik hunched over the keys, longing to drown out the world and the deafening screaming of his own mind. His past contained many faults and crimes, but none so affected him more than that of the deception of Christine. The corner of his mouth twitched. "I am not an angel, you are right, but perhaps I am a fallen angel." He lifted his head just in time to see her eyes soften at his words and a dull pain shot through his heart at the sight. "I do not deserve my clipped wings."

Sighing, Erik drooped his head, the weight of his deception and their exchange laying heavily upon his shoulders. Christine could see him fiddling with the cuffs on his shirt when he next spoke. "Are we to continue like this until the end?" Dropping her gaze, Christine, too, started to toy with her sleeve, thumbing the white lace finishing as she told him she did not know what he meant. "Christine, look at me." She did. "You know perfectly well what I mean."

Sadness poured over her as she nodded and leaned her elbow on the small curve next to the keys' edge. Her face fell into her upturned palm and her eyes closed; Erik observed her quietly, knowing that any small amount of comfort he provided now would be rebuffed and unwanted. His fingers ran across the instrument once more and then pressed down, his own eyes slipping shut as music filled the air.

With every phrase, her misery began to ebb, and so did Erik's. They shared in the notations of their joined souls and when their eyes met, they were both hypnotised, entranced by the seductive call of the piano. Her lips parted and an apology began to entwine itself with his playing.

"It is I who should be asking for forgiveness," he corrected. "I know you will continue to pine for your lover. The way I behave, they way I curse his very name... it is unjust and unkind."

Beside him, Christine grimaced. "Do not act as though you are solely at fault. I could not bear to look at you this morning because you're incapable of placing any blame on me. No, it's true, Erik. You want me near but you will not let me in. I do not know what you are thinking most of the time; I only know that you place me on an obscenely high pedestal. And when you ask me to remain faithful and you ask me to forget, how can I? You bring up the past in our every conversation, Erik. I told myself that I could stand living with you, but over the last few days I..." She looked up at him. "I do not know whether I can do this anymore."

A look of absolute dismay coursed through his thin features and he tore his hands from the piano, and gripped them around the bench. "You are stronger than this, Christine," he murmured, wishing he had the courage to frame her face with his palms. "You have downplayed your strength from the moment I met you, but I know you. I know you have it within you."

"You sound so certain."

A moment of silence passed and then a confident, "I am."

Sighing, she slouched and looked to her lap. "I do not even know how to refer to you now. I cannot call you angel, nor husband, nor guardian."

"What about... friend?"

At this, she glanced up and, showing the courage that Erik had lacked, placed her hand on top of his bony one. "I would like that, Erik, but more than anything right now, I need to know that you will try to be more than a ghost. You have to be more than that. I need you to be you _._ Just Erik; no one else. I need you to be real."

She squeezed his fingers and he swallowed the want to weep at her feet. As a friend and a comforter, Erik sufficed, but she knew it would not last. They knew a difficult task now lay ahead of them. They needed to learn to trust one another again.


	8. Chapter 8

Spring had now arrived, and with it came a queer longing within Christine. She longed to plant her feet upon the Parisian streets for longer than a simple outing would allow and to immerse herself in the city's centre, to feel the freedom of a new season blowing in her hair. A fortnight before, she had been such a pitiful thing, suffering through her separation from her childhood sweetheart. Her pale features had echoed the lament of her heart and for many days she had drifted through the corridors with the solemness of a spectre doomed to wander the Opera Ghost's realm forever. But slowly, like the unfurling of a flower's first bloom, a rosiness had begun to colour her cheeks again, a fire was ignited in her eyes and the presence of spring had only encouraged a cheerful disposition to emerge.

On night night, Erik asked if she wished to sing. He had been longing to hear her voice again, to have it fill these gloomy halls, for he knew only in song was she truly happy. And though she appeared to be much less melancholy now, he was still hesitant to approach her lest she rebuke him.

Peering over her embroidery in diluted surprise, she smiled. "Yes, I would like that very much."

"Excellent!" he exclaimed at the sight of her beautiful face, his body taut in anticipation. "You need not stop your work; I shall await you in the music room."

After his departure, Christine returned to her embroidery, attempting to master the troublesome threading and finish her needlework before she fell into music's sweet embrace. It had been too long since she had lost herself in song. Biding her time, she knew not to rush this much longed for reunion, and paid close attention to slowing her threading of the needle through the cloth.

"Ouch!" she gasped suddenly, peering down at her finger to see a pool of dark blood gathering round a tiny puncture wound. She muttered to herself, casting the wretched needle aside, and glared at its treacherously sharp end.

Cleaning the small injury was a simple, albeit irksome procedure, but it was with great joy that she practically flew into the music room afterwards. As expected, Erik was already there, sitting on his piano stool, his shoulders hunched and his hands flitting across sheet music in fervent release as he composed. It was both strange and slightly wondrous to witness the magnitude of passion that he poured into every ounce of his music. Not wishing to disturb him, Christine tiptoed across to sit on the wooden chair that rested at the adjacent wall.

She watched from her spot, tilting her head in the hopes of obtaining a better view of his fingertips pressing and controlling the keys with such ease. In this endeavour, she leaned a little too far to the side and had to grab the edge of the seat for fear of tumbling to the ground. The old wood beneath her gave out a slow creak and Erik spun around, the dip pen still in his hand as he studied her somewhat bashful gaze. Coming to his senses, he scrambled to clear his workspace, piling his music and pen away in a nearby cabinet.

"Forgive me, I did not hear you come in," he mumbled, closing the cabinet doors and gesturing humbly towards the piano. "If you are ready, shall we begin?"

She sang her scales, trying her best to project but after several warm ups, and an apparently futile attempt on her part, Erik made it clear to her that she was not in voice. The remnants of a chord hung about the room as he removed his hands from the keys and placed them rather dejectedly in his lap. Disappointment hung in his every movement and Christine irrefutably found that she, too, shared in this.

Placing her hands on her hips, she closed her eyes at the pounding of her heart. Her failure to reconnect with the music was not entirely unexpected, but with displeasure resting on the faces of both student and tutor, this setback proved more haunting than first thought.

Unaware of her inward battle, Erik massaged the bridge of the mask's nose. His earlier excitement had been snuffed out like a candle's flame and the burnt wick that remained left a sour feeling in his soul. "I should not have expected so much from you," he confessed wearily. "You are severely out of practise and I am only to blame. I have neglected your voice as of late and I can only hope you will forgive me for my negligence. We can continue with the lesson if you want, but I will not push you."

At once, Christine shook her head, her grip on her hips tightening as one hand slid across her stomach. "I think not," she said quietly, looking up to see Erik turned away from her. Embarrassed and slightly hateful towards both of their reactions, Christine walked away without another sound.

o0o

"Erik," she spoke softly, rapping on the worn out wood of his chamber door. "You have been in there all afternoon, please come out." She always worried when he found it fit to lock himself in his room and play out the remainder of the day in dwelling solitude. How he could stand to bear it, she could not fathom. She knocked a little louder this time and again there was no answer.

Never one to give up when it came to Erik, her gaze abruptly dropped to the unassuming yet entirely inviting door handle. On countless occasion, she had been warned to never enter without his permission, but she could not see the harm one little look would bring. She argued then that if he was so resolved to being stubborn, ignoring her when she was in a worried state, then this little intrusion was only what he deserved. Her fingers greedily reached down to grab the handle and turned it. To her surprise, the door was unlocked and it opened with only the slightest of touches.

There was no line of light which poured out through the crack of the door and Christine steadied her nerves at the sight of the room eerily painted in darkness. Entering, she called out to him, once again receiving no answer. As she continued her walk into the shadows, she saw that there was a small but blurry glow coming from the desk—a candle which had not yet quite lost its flame. It did not take her long to find other candles before stealing the dying embers to create new ones. This was not a place to lose one's bearings and Christine heavily valued her sight.

As the light spread into the four corners of the room and cascaded up the walls, she grimaced when she saw that it did nothing to change the atmosphere. Everything was of a morbid black, lounging in their master's gloom, never to see sunlight—much like herself, she added morbidly.

Starting at one corner and making her way to the other, her fingers ran curiously over the coarse material of the cobbled walls, the occasional ripped satin curtain offering the only glimpse of softness on her path. Her eyes roamed the walls until they landed on something quite strange near the ceiling, but, being too short to see clearly, she could only make out a row of paper lining the wall. Quickly fetching a candle from his desk, Christine held it up as high as she could and was able to see that there was some sort of writing sprawled across the sheets. As she strained her eyes to read it, she discovered the melancholy lyrics of 'Dies Irae'.

A chill came over her and she lowered the candle to the ground, continuing her observations of the room from before. She stopped when her hand reached one particular satin drape, expecting to feel the scrape of cobble beneath it, but finding no such roughness. Instead, it was quite smooth and flat and Christine swiftly peeled back the drape only to come face to face with a door. Excited at this thrilling discovery, she jiggled the handle but froze when she heard a sound behind her that was undoubtedly the soft scrape of a shoe against stone. Biting her lower lip, she turned to find Erik's figure silhouetted in the doorway.

"What do you think you are doing in here?"

His voice tingled in her ear and though he did not sound angry, his tone warned her not to toy with him. Nervously, she took a step away from the hidden door. "I was worried about you," she whispered breathlessly.

"Oh, you were?" he asked condescendingly, walking towards her. "So you were not trying to open that?" He pointed a bony finger behind her and was amused at the subtle shake of her head. Behind the mask, he raised an eyebrow. "Really? It would not, therefore, interest you to know that I have the key to that door—" he produced an object from deep within his jacket pocket, "—right here?"

Christine stared at it inquisitively, perhaps for too long, before shaking her head politely. "No, Erik."

"Ah," he said in that tedious tone, "so you _were_ worried about me."

"Of course I was worried. How could I not have been?" She looked up at him, cautiously edging her way closer. "Erik, you lock yourself in here for hours on end. How do you think I would react?"

He gave her a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders and fiddled with the key in his hands, quietly relishing in the warmth of the metal against his skin. "Perhaps you would rejoice in the fact that you do not have to share my company for a while."

"Why do you say such things?" she demanded, craning her neck to meet his troubled eyes. "I thought you were past thinking those types of thoughts."

"I am," he snapped.

"Then why—"

"I don't know!" he exclaimed, squeezing the small object into his palm until he was certain it had made an indent. Meeting her kind gaze, he felt his fingers begin to tremble. "Perhaps I cannot comprehend that the woman I love is residing with me, here, in my home, _willingly_..."

Just as Erik's voice had failed him, Christine soon found that she, too, was without a voice. But words would not have helped at that moment. Instead, a need to take him in her arms had started to overpower her inability to speak. If she could not comfort him with words then she would show him, and God help her for wanting to try.

Her arms unfurled, wary of the tension in his hands, but before she could even touch him, he took a sudden step back and something heavy was placed within her one of her open palms.

"See for yourself what I keep locked up in there."

Curling her fingers over the key, Christine looked at him for a second more, registering yearning and something akin to defeat in the hardness of his jaw, until she shook her head and stretched out her enclosed hand. "No," she said. "I do not want this."

Before she could say another word, Erik had raised his hands in a gentle, yet pleading gesture. "I insist," he whispered.

A small smile graced her lips as she cautiously thanked him and her mind raced through the hundreds of possible things that could be lurking on the other side of that door. Her hand shook slightly as she placed the key in the slot and as she had just begun to turn it a hideous shriek echoed through the halls, piercing her ears with its shrill tones. Startled, she stumbled backwards, staring in all directions for the source of that horrific sound.

Looking questionably at Erik, she hastily threw her hands up to cover her ears and yelled, "What is that?"

"It is the siren's call," he answered calmly, his head slowly tilting towards the open door, his body rigid and his eyes distant.

"And what does that mean?"

"Only one thing," he began steadily, his voice crawling beneath her skin as his lips parted in a grin. "We have company."

o0o

Scouring the darkness of his domain, Erik tread along the wet ground with cat-like stealth, stalking his unsuspecting prey, eager for the thrill of the chase, the exhilarating kill. As steadfast as the gallows, he stood and waited, the noose in his hands gently swaying in the air, tauntingly. It was close now; the smell of sweat that hung about the passageway was unmistakable.

In the distance shone a hazy light, a lantern, a flicker of a candle which could so easily be extinguished. His fingers were poised, his muscles aching to be stretched. A faint groan echoed through the passageway and anticipation fuelled Erik's every breath. It would seem that something had stumbled upon one of his minor traps, the poor thing. There it was, struggling on the ground like a little creature, clawing at its captivity, desperate for its freedom. But it did not cry out, nor did it attempt a futile escape. It merely sat there as though waiting for the very thing that had trapped it.

" _You_."

At the sound of the ghost's voice, Nadir Khan spun round, careful not to move his trapped leg. Erik felt his bloodlust fade to unadulterated anger as his twitching fingers hurried the noose out of sight.

"Ah, how nice of you to show yourself," Nadir muttered through bared teeth as he uncomfortably leant his stiff back up against the wall. "Now," he huffed, "would you be so kind as to free me from this confounded thing?"

"You idiotic man," Erik growled, the reflection of the flame alight in his furious eyes. "Why did you come here? You should never have returned."

Though he took pride in his patience, Nadir could feel it waning with each passing second. "And yet, here I am," he said in defeat.

"And that is your misfortune," Erik snapped. "Have your senses finally left you?"

"What are you talking about?" Nadir asked wearily, not wanting to play Erik's game, only wishing that he would free him.

"Do you truly have a death wish? I did not think your skull so thick as to fall into one of my traps," he explained as he gritted his teeth. "Especially not after your last visitation when you made it through unscathed... Ah," he scoffed, a slow smirk forming on his face, "I do apologise, I meant barely unscathed." As a tremor ran through Nadir's body at the memory of that night, a dark memory bled into Erik's mind. "You should not have come," he repeated, closing his eyes tightly before turning away from the heap of a man on the ground.

Staring after him in irritable disbelief, Nadir shook the chain which bound him. "Do you intend to simply leave me here?"

"I should have left you to rot years ago," he snarled in reply.

Nadir sighed, leaning his head back against the cold stone. "I have long since grown tired of your humour."

Peering over his cloaked shoulder, the brilliant white of the mask seemed to float in shadow as he replied, "You think I am jesting?"

Any feeling of mirth that Nadir may have held now drained from his body as quickly as the blood from his face. A quiet chill lay between the two men until Erik knelt down beside him, his hands working quickly to remove the small but painful trap.

With a sharp cry, Nadir was free. Rubbing his ankle slowly, he then struggled to his feet, bracing himself against the wall for support. Erik watched him for a moment longer, a grimace on his face as he turned and disappeared into the shadows. He did not get far before a short exclamation echoed behind him, sounding more surprised than distressed.

"Were you just going to walk away?" Nadir pressed.

"It would appear that way, yes," Erik replied without hesitation. "But," he continued, "I suppose that with that leg you will not go away, will you?"

"You suppose correctly," Nadir grunted, leaning down to pick up the lantern.

"Very well, then." Trudging off into the passageway, Erik heard the scuffle of his hobbling companion as he attempted to match his pace. "Do not think I am going to help you," he called over his shoulder.

Behind him, despite being irked and in pain, Nadir managed to shake his head in irritable disbelief. "I would never think to impose," he muttered dryly.

The remainder of the journey back was cast in a silence to which both men were more than eager to comply.

"Do come in," Erik snarled, waiting in the middle of the room as the man in question made his way slowly to the settee. "Oh, stop your limping! It will not require urgent medical attention," he moaned, pacing across the floor. "And now to the reason of your intrusion, Daroga."

"I see you still have not made any headway in hospitality," he huffed as he examined his leg. "I am here because of the welfare and protection of Christine Daaé."

"Protection against what, may I ask?" Erik asked pressingly. "Are you suggesting that I cannot protect her? Ha! What folly! I assure you she is quite safe here."

"Events in the past have me persuaded otherwise," the Persian mused. "I have no doubt though, as you have put it, that she is safe within these walls. What I am concerned about is whether or not you can protect her from yourself."

Stopping his pacing, Erik whirled around and glared at the man who had had the gall to make himself comfortable on _his_ settee. "Meaning what exactly?"

Nadir returned his companion's hefty glare with a softer, yet concerned glint. "There is no delicate way of putting this. Erik, have you... hurt her?"

"Hurt her? Why do you ask this?"

"Erik, answer the question."

"How dare you accuse me of that!" he cried. "Do you think me so low and degrading as to try to..." he trailed off into a silence, not bringing himself to name such an unspeakable crime. As his irritation grew, his heart began to pound fervently, setting a clockwork rhythm for his dark thoughts. "I begrudge you for thinking so little of me. I know I am seen as nothing more than a monster, but—"

"You know that I do not see you in that way," Nadir interjected.

Erik sighed, suddenly feeling drained as the Persian's words filtered in through his mind, soothing his anger. "I could never do such a thing to her, Daroga, not as long as I live. If I did then I would never forgive myself."

Nadir lowered his head. "I had to ask, you understand. No one has seen her in weeks. I was merely concerned."

"Don't be," he said. "It is natural for one to think of something so horrid when Erik is involved."

"I did not mean to cause offense."

"Then why do you speak such atrocities? Is it so that you can justify your actions in taking her away from me? That is what you want to do, is it not? Take her away?" His voice shook with writhing anger. "Is that the motive behind your little visit? For if this is the case then I would strongly advise you to tread carefully. You are wallowing in deep, infested waters, my friend. I will not allow you to take her from me."

"You really have not changed, have you? You still take guilty delight in having what is not yours to have."

A melodious light-hearted, yet underlying dry laugh bounced off the corners of the room. "You speak in riddles, Daroga!"

"Stop it." Nadir's voice no longer held that trance of strange sincerity it previously did and was now cold as hopeless suspicion shrouded his judgement. "Do not play games with me; I did not come here to play games. You must tell me the truth, Erik. Are you holding Christine Daaé here against her will?"

Mockingly, Erik laughed again, his dulcet tones piercing the Persian's heavy heart. "How offended you have made me! You were there that night. She chose me. _Me_."

"I understand that, but—"

"No. No, you do not understand." His anger ebbed and in its place lay distant desperation, making each word that passed through his lips a pained pledge, a sacrament reaffirming his pitiful revere. He was but a poor slave, a hapless worshipper, who praised not a celestial being but a mortal. A woman. She had long since taken his heart and, without her, he would be nothing.

"She chose _me_ ," Erik whispered, "and in that moment I knew I would do anything for her, even let her go. But she stayed; out of pity or concern, I do not know, but she _stayed._ Never in my life had there been such peaceful bliss knowing that she was in the next room!" A smile formed on his thin lips. "I love her. I know my actions may not lead you to believe such a thing, but it is true. I know I cannot live without her. If she is not there, I would surely die... But, if you dare touch her—"

"I know," Nadir quickly said. "But you must allow me to speak with her. If you do not then I can only assume something has happened to her." When his shadowed companion said nothing in reply, he continued. "Where is she?"

Pulling himself out of his daze, Erik's posture relaxed until he slowly turned to the Persian, scoffing."I see your sleuthing skills have left you."

"What are you talking about now?"

"Have you not heard the quiet treading of feet?" he asked teasingly. Tilting his head towards the dullness of the nearest corridor, he called into it. "Christine, come out here."

Frowning, Nadir looked in the same direction just in time to see a slender frame in blue slowly emerge into the light. Her head was partially lowered but even his old eyes could see the panic on her face, her loose strands of hair not completely managing to hide her expression. Though her eyes were frantic, her body language appeared relatively calm—more coy than frightened.

The tension in his tired body faded as he watched the young woman's gaze fall onto Erik's silhouette. In the shadows, Nadir watched the two contrasting figures in fearful wonderment. The two souls seemed to regard one another with a thoughtful silence. After a long moment had passed, those youthful eyes flickered towards the intruder of their privacy, delayed recognition burning within them. Her mouth opened, an apology laden with second hand guilt on the tip of her tongue. But an apology for what? Eavesdropping? Or for his treatment that night?

"Yes, Christine!" Erik exclaimed with feigned enthusiasm. "Look who has decided to grace us with his company."

"Monsieur, why are you..." she started, frowning as she tried to understand the Persian's unexpected and bizarre arrival. "I don't understand."

Nadir's winced as he quickly rose to his feet, an indicator of much needed rest, as his muscles tensed. "Do you remember me, Mademoiselle Daaé?"

"Yes," he heard her say before he saw her glance to the third member of their party, as though aware of the effect of her words. "You were there that night."

After weeks of trying, Christine still could not comprehend how this peculiar man fitted into their tale. For months, he had merely been another face at the Opéra, walking among thespians and patrons as though he were one of them, slinking backstage and wherever else he liked. Never once did Christine question his presence, assuming that the man only wished to be left alone. But, he had known far more than she had ever expected and this man, this mysterious man whom she still knew nothing about, had helped Raoul that night, had taken him and shown him the way to Erik's home.

There were so many questions regarding his connection to Erik that she wished to be answered. "Why have you come back?"

"Yes, yes, she asks an important question," Erik hissed. "Why have you come back, Daroga?"

Christine blanched upon hearing the odd title, but did not pursue it. She waited for Erik to receive a reply but, when hearing none, gently probed, "You wished to speak with me, Monsieur?"

"Yes," Nadir said slowly, casting a side glance towards Erik. "If I am permitted to do so in private."

"You do what you please," he muttered, his shoulders sinking as he exhaled raggedly. "But I do not suppose we shall have any peace until you do." With his dark eyes, he captured Nadir's wary attention, small trembles running through him under their scrutiny. "Be quick about it." And with that he left.

Once alone, neither Nadir and Christine, who could barely pass for acquaintances in polite society, seemed to possess the courage to speak. A doubt lingered in their minds that Erik had not been true to his word, that he was still there, watching and listening unseen. Living under the oppressive memory of the Opera Ghost was almost as terrifying as the figure himself.

Deciding that nothing would come of this meeting if they allowed their fear to rule them, Christine approached Nadir, and only then did she notice the dark and glistening substance on his trouser leg. "Mon Dieu!" she cried, rushing over. "You are hurt!"

Nadir followed her frenzied stare and held up his hands passively, silencing her own wringing hands and nerves. "I have inspected it, Mademoiselle. I will be able to make my own way back without much hassle, but I will need to make this conversation brief so that I can attend to the wound properly."

Although his words calmed her to some extent, a pressing suspicion began to emerge in her mind until she found she could not stop herself from uttering it. "Did Erik do this to you?"

"Not directly," he explained quickly. "I was merely a victim of one of his traps."

"Another trap," she murmured, her mouth pulling into a grim line. "Your journeys below always seem to end in misfortune, Monsieur. I am sorry, truly I am."

"Do not concern yourself with me, Mademoiselle," he said, shyly beckoning her closer with his hand. He spoke quietly to her as she approached, barely above a whisper. "But what of you? Are you well? What is your state of health?"

"I am as well as I can be," she answered finally, matching his hushed tones.

"Hmm," Nadir grumbled, peering around him nervously and tensing whenever he saw the vigorous flicker of a candle. As he turned his attention back towards the young woman, he lingered on her hand, noticing something was not quite right. Pointing at it, he said, "Your finger, it appears reddened."

"Oh, yes," she said, glancing down. "I had a little accident earlier with my embroidery needle, is all. It is nothing to fret over, thank you, but... You do believe me, don't you? Erik had nothing to do with this."

Nadir searched her face for any sign that she may have been lying, but, having found none, he nodded. "I apologise for insinuating, Mademoiselle, but I had to ask." Another look over his shoulder. "I have spoken with your fiancé. Weeks passed and he received no word. He was driving himself mad at the thought of you injured or... Mademoiselle, I am here for the Vicomte. If you are being held here unwillingly, if Erik has hurt you, I will return you to your fiancé at a moment's notice."

As Christine took in what he was saying, what he was offering her, she felt a sharp tugging at her heart that silenced all thoughts but one heard. "Did Raoul not receive my letter?"

"Yes, he did," he replied, studying her confused expression with the greatest bemusement. "The letter was true to your wishes then?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Why? Was it not to be believed?"

"Mademoiselle Daaé," Nadir began, lowering his head so that he could remain at eye level with her. There was something about the way he looked at her that made Christine highly uncomfortable. It was as though he were assessing her, diagnosing her with whatever ailment the world thought she had. Was she now to be labelled a madwoman for choosing to stay with a madman? "Are you saying that you do not wish to return above ground?"

A sad smile graced her lips, a swirl of lost memories drowning in her misty eyes. "I have nothing to consider. I have chosen."

Nadir paused, once again watching the corners of the room. "You do not want me to take you with me?"

She shook her head. "He needs me, and I cannot leave him."

"Then may Allah smile down on you, my dear lady."

Not long afterwards, Nadir returned to the surface, leaving Erik's home in complete silence once more. Erik's home... it was as much Erik's as it was Christine's, and yet she still could not consider this damp and dreary place her home. She searched for her living companion and soon found him inside his bedchamber.

Her eyes widened as she looked beyond and saw that the hidden door of her own discovery was now open. With all the rigidity of a statue, Erik stood, stoically staring at it and at her from afar. Christine stepped slowly across the threshold, making her way to him.

"You wished to know," he said flatly as she reached his side.

She gave him one last wary look before turning in the direction of the unlocked door and seeing only one object within. Kneeling down beside the object, Christine titled her head to get a better look at it. It was a rather small, rectangular, wooden box with engravings carved into its surface. She ran her fingers over the marked wood, endeared by its craftsmanship. Trailing her hand down the front of the box, she found a key already slotted into its lock. With a loud click, the latch was free and the lid was opened.

Inside lay various newspaper clippings, all of which were recent and all of which had a connection to her. She slouched to the floor as she inquisitively roamed the articles. ' _La Daaé Triumphs_ ', one headline read, ' _New Soprano Takes Stag_ e', said another. While searching for other such clippings, she found more items of sentimental value; a dozen or so shrivelled rose petals, several pieces of music bearing Erik's signature and an earring she had worn—and thought lost—during her debut.

"You kept all of these?" she asked in disbelief as her eyes fell upon more articles from her past successes.

A sickening pain churned inside Erik and he tried to convince himself it was merely the remnants of his illness which had occurred again not days before, but it was of no use. His heart felt as though it were being twisted, squeezed under the delicate hand of his beloved. By opening the door, he had let her is what she had wanted; To know him, to know his guilt and his pride in her, and to know the shameless longing that coursed through him every time she took a simple breath.

"How could I not?" he whispered.


	9. Chapter 9

Erik had done the unimaginable. Not only had he opened doors to memories he thought would never see the light of day again, but he had also allowed Christine the right to chip away at his tightly worn armour. She had burst open those floodgates, and at first he had felt as though he were drowning, submerged in a river of self-loathing as suppressed and twisted images snarled at him. But Christine had not let him drown; his darling girl had pulled him from his despair with her kind words and diligence. He would never allow her to know the extent of the horrors that had plagued his past, but the gift of understanding that she had offered him in return for his honesty was enough to make him weep.

Although these new truths had entered their lives, Erik had yet to explain to Christine the circumstances of how he had come to know Nadir Khan. But his evasive behaviour only served to goad her determination. The relationship between the two men—if one could call such a peculiar thing a 'relationship'—had fascinated her from the very beginning, but every attempt she made to gain information on the subject had resulted in failure. She feared she would hit a nerve one day if she pushed Erik too far with her questioning, but, having sensed there was more to their relationship than met the eye, she became utterly gleeful when she had been informed of Nadir's intentions of visiting them regularly. Erik, on the other hand, could not be have been more displeased. His unintelligible mutterings—and possible cursing as well, though Christine would never attest to this—promptly brought that conversation to a close. There was a time and a place for such conversations, such delving into the past, but now was the time, and nor was it the place. Peace would be brought to her upon learning the truth, but in the mean time, she would be patient and wait and attend to the delicate trust that had begun to grow between them again.

It was now the height of spring, and Christine's renewed visitations above ground had prompted her to become more relaxed in Erik's presence. On one afternoon, after they had returned from a walk, she contented herself by settling into the cushions on the divan; her arm was sprawled above her head and over the divan's arm like a cat's limb as she remembered the sun's warmth on her skin. Across from her sat Erik at the pianoforte. It was not usual for her to keep company with him whilst he devoted himself to his music, but more often these days she felt compelled to act boldly. A smile graced her lips as a familiar melody started to emerge from the entanglement of notes he had been playing. Mozart. Over time, she had come to realise that Erik would play Mozart whenever she was in the room with him. If his aim was to please her, then he would always succeed.

Lost in the beauty of music, Christine raised her arm and let her fingers tap out the scaling arpeggios in the air. She would never confess this to him, but there was a part of her that took cruel pleasure in the knowledge that she was the only person for whom he performed. At the same time, however, she knew the tinge of melancholy about this scene, for she would most likely be the only one to hear him play for the remainder of his days. The public would have fallen to their knees before him, in awe over his music, had they only placed the beauty of creation over the monstrosity that was his face.

And it was through music that Christine felt most content. It was that which breathed life into her, the substance that made her soul float higher than any mortal could ever dream to; it was her connection to heaven and to her dearly departed parents. It was a part of her, as tightly bound into the fabric of her own existence as her blood or flesh or organs.

Quietly rising to her feet, she walked over and stood beside the lid. She then leaned against it in a languid haze, observing his artistry and the ease in which he played. "When I was younger, before I came to France that is," she began, "I expressed an interest in learning how to play. We had a small piano in our home in Uppsala and I remember my father practicing in the afternoons, and then he would play his violin and I would sing and the whole house would be filled with music." She laughed, lowering her head in fond reminiscence. "After my mother died, we would often try to fill the gap she had left in our lives with music. She was very accomplished; I wish I could have known her better."

Erik listened intently, but said nothing, choosing to glance at her subtly from the mask's eye rims. Her voice was beautiful even as the pain she had suffered from her mother's death crept into her tone. "Did you ever learn?" he eventually asked, seeking to pull her from her unhappiness as she constantly did with him.

"No... well, yes," she corrected herself. "I have not touched a piano in years, but not from the lack of having one. I play very poorly, Erik. Very poorly indeed. Your ears would bleed upon hearing it." At this, he smiled, fully and without thought or hesitation, and Christine smiled back at him, delighted in his response. She decided to venture a little further. "Where did you learn to play? I do not recall you ever telling me."

"That is because I haven't," he said, his eyes never leaving the keys, but sensing that she would not desist in this subject, he finally added, "it is something that I picked up from a very young age."

Christine was grateful that he did not look up at that moment for he would have seen her gaping at him, her eyes wide with amazement and slight scepticism. "You mean you were not taught?" He nodded and she slouched her body further against the piano lid. "That is a remarkable accomplishment," she whispered.

"Do I detect doubt in your tone?"

"Of course! Oh, I... What I mean is... I just cannot believe it." She raised one eyebrow in thought. "You surely cannot have taught yourself all of your skills, no?" A minor chord hung in the air between them as he breathed deeply and stilled his hands against the keys. Her curiosity began to grow as quickly as his irritation. "What of your other skills? The sorcery, your architecture... where did you learn it all?"

Unwanted tension spread through his back and he very nearly gave into the temptation to flee from the room. "Christine, I would rather not..."

She did not heed the faint trace of warning in his words for she continued her ramblings as before. "Did you study for many years, or did it all come naturally? Oh, imagine such a thing! It is simply remarkable to think—"

"Cease your infernal questioning!" he snapped raising curled fingertips to his head. "I cannot stand another second of it!"

After he had quietened, the remnants of his outburst still clung to the air and Christine retreated from the piano. She squeezed her hands together and felt her pulse thrumming against her heated and prickled flesh. Even so, she did not back down. She had tasted his anger once more, but it was certainly not unprecedented, and she would not be made to cower before him now.

When he bowed his head, murmured an apology and asked if she would sing for him, she simply laughed in disbelief. "Is that what you wish, Erik? I do not think you deserve such a thing, just as I did not deserve your wrath."

His teeth gritted and she could sense he was biting down on certain unsavoury words, but the moment he met her challenging stare, he melted and succumbed to her will. He cried out his remorse yet again and Christine, who could not bear the weight of his constant apologies, silenced him with a soft bark of his name.

"Please, no more of this," she begged. "We must move on from our disputes. We must try to get along, and we have been trying, haven't we, Erik? We were getting along splendidly."

He heard the regret in her words and shuddered. "I shall try, Christine. I shall truly try to get better."

"And I shall try to be more sensitive in my questioning." The start of a smile teased the corner of her mouth.

The next hour was spent as a sort of penance, with both souls repenting through song the grief they had caused each other. As Christine's voice soared, the true accolades of Erik's tutelage took flight and his accompaniment rose to meld with her in a blend of intoxicating haze. They fled from the silence together, diving into aria after aria; they were desperate not to be driven from their shakily acquired equilibrium.

As consumed as she was from singing _Il ne revient pas_ from Gounod's 'Faust', Christine could not hope to escape from Erik's hard stare. Partway through, he stood up, his playing slowly dwindling to a halt, and Christine froze, uncertain as to what he was thinking. When he moved around the piano, she unconsciously took a step back. Her voice faltered for a fraction of a second before she returned to the aria's tragic arms, wielding her song in such a way as a soldier might his pistol. It was her very own source of protection against Erik, but he was not deterred, merely entranced, just as she wanted him to be. Her cruel mind once again hissed at her, taking pleasure in his submission.

When he stopped in front of her, his curious eyes roaming her contorting face and mouth, she weaved her song around him like a comforting web. He gazed with longing and she did not discourage it, not even when he raised his fingers to her throat, the tips of which nearly touched as though in reverent prayer. His eyes closed at the rapture he felt and Christine allowed those fingertips to ghost gently over the front of her neck. He could feel the vibrations of her cords.

Bravely, Erik's hands began to slide around her jaw and he held her head as it began to droop backwards, carefully and oh-so lightly. He was able to see the slight beat of a pulse in her neck and he found it as bewitching as her voice itself. Christine softened her singing, her eyelids drooping to a half close whenever she felt the accidental brush of his breath on her skin. He was terribly close to her now, closer than he had ever been before. He loomed over her and there was something in his touch that felt dangerous; the electric tingling on a sinner's skin as he makes contact with a forbidden and scared relic.

Her song faded into a breathless gasp the moment Erik's mouth brushed against the centre of her throat, and the spell she had so boldly woven was broken. He pulled back instantly, staring at her in horror and raising his fingers towards his face. His lips still prickled at the memory of her trembling voice.

"Forgive me," he choked, tilting his head downwards for he could not bring himself to face the strange way in which she looked at him. He would have given anything to have been able to read the expression in those veiled eyes! "Earlier, you said that Erik did not deserve the gift of your song and you are right. He is not worthy of such a precious thing. When he heard you sing to him, he... he was lost in a moment of weakness. He had... _I_ had to make amends, to show you that your voice is revered and will not be taken for granted."

Words failed her at his confession, for the devastatingly clear fact of the matter was that, with his heart full of her song, he had not kissed her, but her voice. The poor man had kissed her voice as a devotee would kiss a statue of a saint.

She raised her hand before she could stop herself, her fingertips almost aching to return the gesture, to lavish the same symbolic sentiment onto him, only to have her wrist grabbed as she brushed against the mask.

Like a cobra, he had stuck and was now inspecting his captive with hostility; the pain of betrayal in his expression was almost intolerable. "Please let me see your face," she said gently.

"No!" he snarled, releasing her wrist with a sharp twist of his hand. "Not this. Please, not this."

Her heart fell at his lingering insecurities, but she was not his enemy, and it was time that he knew this fact. If he could have but placed a little of his trust in her, then perhaps he would not continue to see her as a threat he had to protect himself from.

She bravely placed her forefinger under his bony chin and carefully lifted his head. She gave him her best attempt at a smile, although it came out rather half-heartedly. "You do not need to hide anymore."

"You do not know what I have been put through," he whispered and in that moment she knew it was true. She knew so very little about him, about his life before Paris, before the Opera House. It was then that a flicker of his past was revealed to Christine, not through words but through the power and grief stricken look in his eyes.

Stifling a shudder, she spoke to him as kindly as she was able. "You are right when you say that I do not know your past, but let me help you to see that you do not have to suffer like that ever again." She hesitated before placing her other hand on his tense shoulder. "May I?"

Erik was frozen in his place. He desperately wanted to believe her sweet words, full of promises and kindness. It was so very tempting for him to play make believe, to pretend that mere words would be enough to protect him. He knew better than that and yet the woman before him spoke no threats. Her tone was soft with her plea. How easy it would have been for her to snatch his mask away from him, but there she stood, asking his permission. His permission! Knowing that she was asking to see his face made his body shake. Was she delusional? Had he driven her mad?

But the idea of his beloved being unafraid and undeterred by his gruesome face was simply exhilarating. There were simply no words to describe such a feeling! If she turned from him now, he knew he would never recover. It would be too much for him to bear. But he also knew that he could never deny her, not when she had asked so sweetly.

But she would not be the one to do it.

Christine stepped back and watched as his hands rose over the mask's cheeks, hesitating only slightly before lifting the barrier from his face.

He truly was a ghastly sight.

His skin, though very thin, was a sickly grey. It stretched over high protruding bones but was slightly baggy just under his sunken eyes. The damaged skin ran over his entire face and even his chin and mouth had not escaped a little of the peculiar colouring. The mask had given an illusion of a full nose, a normal nose, but what was beneath barely resembled a nose at all. And his eyes were hollow like a corpse's. Without the mask, his power and vulnerability burned more intensely within those sockets.

Pity flooded Christine's senses, overriding all else, but her heart still swelled with gratitude. He had placed his trust in her, had exposed himself to her and she had not gaped and she had not fled.

Before she could think about what she was doing, Christine leaned forward and stroked his cheek. She drew back when she felt a shudder run through him, but her smile remained constant as he stared at her in wonder and confusion. No words were spoken, but a sense of mutual respect and overdue acceptance flowed between them, and suddenly the silence did not seem as terrible as it did before.


	10. Chapter 10

"Do you know what day it is tomorrow?"

The question, though simplistic and mundane, managed to form a frown on Christine's otherwise blank face. She had been daydreaming quite frivolously again, for it was a new habit of hers she had developed in the wake of her unrest. She had been staring at the most recent addition to the room: a large, overbearing, yet entirely delightful clock. Well, there was only so much one could do to occupy one's time underground after all.

Her head had turned lazily at the sound of his lilting tones and she saw him still engrossed at his desk. Quite recently, he had begun working again, in his own unique fashion, sorting through papers and piles of music and Heaven knew what else, going to and from his desk and shelves in a flurry of black.

Resting in the armchair next to the fireplace, Christine had attempted to study his routine for any noticeable patterns—the very thought of being able to predict the movements of the Opera Ghost was particularly thrilling—and though she was being watchful, she was unable to find any such pattern. Resigned to her failure, she had proceeded to stare into the flames—which possessed more predictability right then than her companion ever had—until his voice had captured her attention.

"No, Erik," she droned, irked at how easily he was amused in his attempts to tease her. "How could I possibly know what day it is tomorrow when I do not know what day it is today?"

"My, my," he said, the rustling of his papers now silenced by the oddly light quality to his voice. "Christine does not know what day it is tomorrow! She does not know of its importance! How amusing, how very amusing."

Huffing at his bizarre behaviour, she resisted the urge to scold him for his pestering or even, as a last resort, to hurl the book that was nestled quietly at her side towards him. "Why do you always ramble on so? If you will not tell me what on earth it is that you are talking about, I shall have no excuse but to walk away."

"Ah, but if you do walk away then you will never hope to know my reasoning behind my question!" he retorted unrelentingly.

"Now you are simply avoiding answering," she said, straightening up in her seat and crossing her arms in vexation and very slight amusement.

Erik regarded her briefly before mirroring her movements and bracing himself against the edge of his desk where he stood. "Tomorrow is the celebration of your birth, Christine."

"Oh! I had no idea." Truly, she had not. The days had eventually seemed to blend into a repetitive series of notations and shared words and she had lost herself to the cycle. "How time has flown."

Clearing his throat, Erik then returned to his papers. "Is there anything that you wish for your birthday?"

Rising to her feet, she approached him with determination. "As a matter of fact, there is something."

"What is it, my love?" he asked, his attention never once diverting back to his work. "Name it and I shall get it for you."

Nervously twisting the material of her dress, her fingertips rubbing harshly against the linen, she said, in a strong, clear voice, "I wish to go above ground." Walking briskly towards him until she was positioned directly to his right, Christine gently rested her fingers on top of his, grimacing as he flinched at the sudden contact, but not deterring when he made no move to remove his hand. "I appreciate and cherish every time we visit the streets of Paris, but I think the time has come when small outings are no longer enough for me. I need to breathe the fresh air, Erik, for longer than a few hours at a time. All I am asking is for a long visitation."

"You might be seen. I might be seen," he warned, his eyes darting between her furrowed brow and the imploring expression in her eyes.

"Please," she said, softly squeezing his fingers, searching for a compromise. "We need not visit until night has fallen. I have always wondered what the Seine looks like in the moonlight," she said, offering him a smile.

A few agonising heartbeats later, Erik straightened his back and looked down in wonder at their joined hands. Christine watched with eager intent, awaiting those words of approval that she so longed to hear. "I know that I cannot deny you anything and I am very afraid that you know this as well."

"Is that a yes, then?" she asked hopefully, her fingers once again tightening around his own before he quickly nodded his head.

At his submission, she cried out in gratitude. She bore the grin of a madwoman and it was enough to set Erik's mind into a frenzy as he began to withdraw from her, watching with confusion as she hopped up and down on the spot in sheer glee. Before she could restrain herself, Christine had flung her arms around his neck in abandon and buried her head into his chest, smiling against his cravat idly. The sudden impact, however, was too much of a strain for Erik's legs and, lacking the support, he collapsed onto his desk chair, inadvertently pulling Christine down with him.

"Oh, I am so sorry!" she cried, biting her lip abashedly. "I really must take better care when I..."

Her words were caught in the dryness of her mouth at that moment, her eyes wide and her pulse heavy under her chilled skin as she saw just how close they were to one another. Her arms hung loosely about his frame, one draped over his neck, the other clutching at his upper arm, and she wanted desperately to pull away, but there was something deep in his eyes, something dark and entirely fascinating which rooted her to the spot.

Erik's stiff yet loose fingers gripped the arms of his desk chair tightly. But all too aware of how gently she was leaning against him, he did not dare move from his frozen position, silently enduring the painfully overwhelming scent of her hair and the feeling of her breath on his skin.

Christine's eyes trailed slowly around his face, from his now flaming eyes, to his pale chin and mouth and when her gaze halted there, confusion creased her brow. How thin his mouth looked, unimposing in shape but capable of the most beautiful and terrifying resonance. Then a thought occurred to her, a memory, rippling on the surface of her mind like water under a light breeze—the memory of a single touch, his lips against the skin of her throat. And, quite suddenly, she felt a flush come over her.

"For-forgive my clumsiness," she said as she scrambled to her feet. "It was not intentional."

Turning her back on him, she smoothed out her dress skirts as she attempted to calm her spinning mind. What on earth had possessed her to throw herself at him like that? She had never acted so boldly around him before. An uncomfortable shiver ran through her as she stood, bewildered at the pounding of her own heart.

Erik, meanwhile, remained seated with his arms now suspended in mid-air like a puppet awaiting the comforting and guiding pull on his strings. If he heard her apology, then he gave no indication of having done so, having opted for staying as still as possible. He was unbelievably grateful for this moment of conscientious reflection, away from the heat of her curious eyes—oh, how they burned him!—and could only hope that she did not despise him.

She said his name shakily, not daring to turn around yet. A prolonged silence hung about the air like a deep, shrouding mist until Erik, who was beginning to feel as though he would lose himself in it, cleared his throat. "What is it that you would like to do during your visit?"

Closing her eyes, Christine felt the delicious rush of relief that his question brought and, after quickly regaining her composure, she twirled around to face him, but not to look at him. She could not quite bring herself to do that. "There are so many things. I do not know how I could possibly name them all."

"Try," he muttered distractedly, anxious to regain control over his senses and not succumb to the sweetness in her voice.

"An evening stroll next to the Seine would be lovely. I would also like... Oh, but what shall I wear? I think I am in need of some new dresses. I only have what I took with me from Mamma's home and—I really must visit her again! She worries so and she has not heard from me in such a long time."

She had not intended to ramble, but the beating of her heart forbade her even the ability to form a coherent and complete sentence. When she clasped her hands together in a gesture of surrender, she dared to glance up only once, her fingers tightening their grip as she inhaled sharply. Her heart beat like the the rhythmic bashing of a drum as she saw him looking back at her, his eyes unwavering and undaunted in their gaze. They were so black and appeared so empty at first, but the swirl of emotion which began to gather and soften those dark orbs was not lost to Christine as she continued to watch him.

Like the flame of a dying candle, a smile flickered on her face and she knew she should thank him properly for his agreement. But no words came, not even the want to speak, nor the urge to move closer and lay a gentle hand on his upper arm in gratitude. She most certainly could not do that after the ungodly manner in which she had behaved. She could not bring herself to stray so close to him. Suddenly wanting to flee from his presence, to clear her mind, she nodded her thanks towards him and scurried from the room.

o0o

Somewhere in the realms of sleep, Christine heard the toll of the clock, but had neglected to heed its call and contently fell deeper into her dreams. Upon finally awakening, she smiled to herself and stretched out demurely against the heavenly blankets. Today, she turned one-and-twenty, and even through the first moments of sleep-hazed consciousness, she knew it would be a memorable day.

Pushing a weary hand through her bed ridden hair, she sat up, her eyes taking but a few seconds to adjust before they widened in delightful surprise. Lying so amorously across the chest at the foot of her bed were two rather large boxes, each one finely enveloped and tied with red ribbon. During the night, or sometime in the early hours of the morning, Erik must have come in and placed them there. It unnerved her slightly that he had entered so quietly and stealthily whilst she slept, but her curiosity over what was inside these boxes overrode her unrest.

Running her fingertips over the ribbon, she had the queerest sense of nostalgia, a reminisce of days of roses and unsigned letters. They floated at the back of her mind; all of them distant memories melding with distant faces, like watercolours bleeding together on a canvas. Her hand lingered over the frayed edge of the ribbon before she gave it a gentle tug and lifted the lid, pausing only briefly before doing the same with the other box. Inside each lay a dress, both rich in colour with pristine finishing. Choosing the closest dress first, Christine held it up against her body and walked over to the vanity mirror to look at it properly. A white lace trimming ran along the modest maroon neckline, sleeves and hem—it was pleasant, very pleasant. She then draped it over her chair and returned to the other dress. As she did with the other, she held it up and then carried it to the mirror for closer inspection. This one was even more beautiful than the last. It had a dark blue and black striped bodice with a velvet trim and tails. It was simply divine. She laid this dress out on her bed and then went about getting dressed into something more suitable for morning excursions.

When Christine stepped out of her room, all appeared quiet, perhaps just a little too quiet for her liking. Suspecting Erik may have prepared a surprise for her, though one could never be certain when it came to a man like him, Christine walked with building anticipation until she reached the music room. Yet, as an eerie silence met her, she pressed her palms to the door frame in bewilderment. Where could he be? she thought to herself.

Making her way into the living room, she felt a surge of disappointment when she found it to be empty, but as she turned, something white caught her eye. It was perched against the brilliant blank of the piano lid and she saw that her name had been scribbled hastily across the front. With impatient fingers, she opened it.

'My dearest Christine,

I want to wish you happy regards on this most joyous day. I pray for your forgiveness for my early departure, but it was necessary. You will find your breakfast waiting for you in the kitchen.'

After a gurgle from her stomach announced itself rather loudly, she left the vague letter on the seat and hurried off in the direction of the kitchen. Sure enough, her breakfast was waiting for her—and what a delicious sight it was! Buns, buttered croissants, fruits—sweet aromas teasing her nose and preparing her anxious taste buds. She hastily sat down and began to nibble and chew her way through the different patisseries, feeling positively giddy at eating such delights she would have only eaten on very special occasions. Cramming as much goodness into her mouth as she could, she decided that treating herself now and then was now a most agreeable prospect.

After she had finished and had wiped the shameful crumbs from her glowing face, she began to hum to herself. When she heard the soft lapping of water in front of her as she made her way through the halls, she found herself smiling again.

"I am glad you have returned," she said, rounding the corner just in time to see the door closing behind him. "Good morning."

Erik pressed his fingertips against the door, more in the unfamiliar comfort of being welcomed home than checking its security. But hearing her kind voice upon his arrival was something he would never tire of, he was certain. "I think you mean good afternoon, Christine," he said with a seldom heard laugh.

"Oh!" She raised her hand to her cheek in mild embarrassment. "I did not think to check the time when I rose. Surely I have not slept half the day already!"

Enjoying her reaction more than he would say, Erik calmly replied, "Yes, it is about a quarter to one now. It would appear that you slept in rather late."

Groaning inwardly, she exclaimed, "Why must my body choose to sleep longer than usual on today of all days? Half the day has gone already and I—"

"You apparently needed the rest," Erik interrupted gently, walking towards her. "Do not blame yourself for that. But I hope your breakfast, or luncheon rather, was to your liking?"

Christine cleared her throat, and laughed at herself. "Yes, very much so, thank you. Oh, and thank you very much for the dresses. I did not expect you to give me anything. They were a lovely surprise."

"You deserve lovely things, Christine," he murmured as he strode past her and across the room, beckoning her to follow.

She trailed behind him happily, but frowned when he came to a halt outside her bedchamber. "Why have you led me here?"

"I have another gift for you," he said, gesturing towards the door. "May I?"

Cautiously, she nodded, pleased that he was seeking permission, and followed him inside. "Another gift?" She peered around him, scouring her room for something she may have missed earlier. "You needn't give me anything else, Erik, the dresses were enough."

"Nonsense." He straightened his back, clasping his hands in front of him in a sophisticated and refined manner. "I like giving you things. I should give you things more often."

"What is my present?" she asked with the spirit of a greedy child, walking to the middle of the room, continuing to look around for a hint, a sign. "Where is my present?"

"If you think I am going to tell you then you are sadly mistaken," he said, gleefully watching her look in all the wrong places.

A rare look of mischief lay in his eyes as she faced him now, her own eyes falling to look at the odd way he was now clutching at his jacket. Before she could ask him what it was that he was hiding, he had gestured to the right of him and asked her to sit. Doing as he said, Christine took a seat at her vanity table and followed the interactions of their reflections in the mirror. She was about to question him again when she saw him place something down in front of her. It was a velvet case of some sort, one that was relatively small and with a rectangular surface. She threw a glance over her shoulder at Erik who was staring intently at her hands as she lifted the lid.

The nerves twitched in her hands and the lid nearly slipped from her grasp. Sparkling incandescently in soft gaslight was a necklace. She dared not look away in fear of it disappearing.

Erik bent down behind her, his mask looming over her shoulder. He alternated his focus between the necklace and Christine's face in the mirror. "Do you like it?" He looked up in time so see an indistinguishable emotion pass over her face. "You do not like it."

"No, no, I do," she reassured him. "I am simply... wondering where you purchased such an item."

"Money is no concern, if that is what is troubling you," he murmured after a brief pause, causing thoughts, some more unsavoury than others, to enter her mind.

"I am not ignorant of the prices of jewellery, Erik," she chided quietly. "Was it truly so expensive?" She was met with silence. "Or did you steal it?" When he still did not reply, despair filled her. "Erik, I am not worth it." Again, he said nothing but leaned his masked head against the top of her chair.

"I... would not steal for your benefit. You would not like it," he began, almost wearily. "Christine, I did not pay for the necklace, that is true, but only because I have been in possession of it for many years." He moved his hand to the other side of the chair so that it lingered closely to her shoulder. "You could call it a family heirloom."

"Oh," she mumbled, ashamed of her previous accusation. "I am sorry, it's just that I'm not used to such lovely gifts. I had to work for the things I wanted in life. I feel strange receiving gifts with no cause for gratification." A small smile broke through the still curve of Erik's mouth. "It sounds silly, doesn't it?"

"Did the Vicomte not present you with the finer things in life?" Erik asked, his fingers curling over the top of the chair as he tried not to focus on the fact that if she moved but an inch, the back of her dress would brush against his fingertips.

Christine bowed her head as a wave of sorrow passed over her at the thought of poor Raoul. She was not ready to admit to herself the thoughts which dwelt in her mind. She was not ready to begin to question her situation all those months ago. Not here. Not now.

And not wanting to ponder on it any longer, Christine raised her head. "I never needed jewellery or even luxury to make me happy, and I certainly do not need them now. I cannot tell you how many times I must have refused Raoul's gifts on those grounds. But _this,_ " she said, gesturing to the necklace, " _this_ I will accept, but only because of its meaning."

Beneath the mask Erik frowned, his mind swimming as he pondered her words. He hadn't the good fortune to know many women in his lifetime, but he was beginning to wonder whether they were all as vague and disorientating as Christine. "I do not understand."

Surprisingly, Christine grinned at him. He did not know how much he had changed. Like a child learning to walk, he had unknowingly practised every day, moving forward, growing, constantly learning to be a better man. A good man! Oh, how she hoped! Knowing that he would have found other means of collecting such a gift a year ago, and knowing that he had not succumbed to that temptation now, made her proud. And a strange feeling overcame her, a feeling of belief, of true hope. Perhaps his soul was not as blackened as she once thought. Perhaps her presence really was helping to save him.

Shaking her head, she simply grinned at him, meeting the stern confusion. Not knowing what else to do, he timidly asked, "Would you... like me to help you put it on?"

Joy spread throughout him as she nodded and he stood with ease. His long fingers danced their way through the air and picked up the necklace, unclasping it swiftly and moving behind her once more. He draped the cold chain around her throat and fixed it in place, allowing his fingertips to hover at the base of her neck for a second longer than he intended.

Christine ran a hand over the necklace, feeling the uneven edges and smooth surfaces of the stones and chain. "Beautiful," she whispered.


	11. Chapter 11

After a surprisingly pleasing early dinner, they had drifted towards the living room, the need for music alive in both their bright eyes. Together, they performed several arias and though Erik never sang for her, Christine was quite at her leisure to listen to him play. As she peacefully reclined on the settee, taking delight that his chosen repertoire for this evening had consisted entirely of Schubert, an idea began to form in her mind.

Sitting up, she called to him, to which he replied with an idle, "Hmm?", before stopping mid-phrase and letting his hands linger over the keys. "What is it? Do you wish for me to play something else? Name it and I shall play it for you."

"No," she said. "I was wondering if you could possibly bring the music box in here?"

When he did not question her request and instead rose from the piano stool and left the room, his silhouette becoming one with the enclosing shadows, Christine smiled to herself.

He returned shortly, setting the object down on the small, but rickety, table next to her before slowly backing away from it. Her eyes widened in innocent wonderment as she heard the opening notes flow from the little box without any instruction. These tricks of his, these fantastic and bizarre illusions that he performed had always intrigued and frightened her. But, she supposed that it was in human nature to fear what you did not entirely understand.

As her smile grew, Christine stood and watched the mechanical marvel turn out more and more bars of a much loved waltz. Soon, she was swaying to the music, her hands clasped together under her chin as she smoothly stepped from side to side.

"Erik," she called once more, a melodic quality to her voice. Twirling on the spot, she saw him standing in the corner, his stance hunched yet timid. "Come and dance with me."

"One could hardly call what you are doing dancing," he criticised, hoping that his dry words would distract her from pursuing her ridiculous request. _Yes_ , he thought, _insult the girl_! _Women_ _dislike being insulted_! "I am only too glad that it is not your forte, otherwise I am afraid you would be facing many, many empty seats every night."

Between her graceful pivots, she managed to glare at him with all the might of a mouse. "Was that entirely necessary?" she asked, silently berating herself for allowing the corner of her mouth to quiver with a smile. "I would like to see you do better. After all, I have done my fair share of dancing throughout the years, or have you forgotten?"

"I may be old, Christine, but I am not that old. My memory is still intact," he replied, though precisely _how_ old, he was not sure. "But I still must decline. I do not dance."

Sighing, she rolled back her shoulders and raised her arms in an elegant sweep, gliding around the room as if she had a partner. "Look at me, Erik!" she exclaimed with all the careless whims of a child. "I dance with the air! Do I not look foolish?"

"Extremely," he muttered under his breath.

"Then why do you stand there mocking me? You never once mocked me during our lessons. I only wish for guidance and for my teacher's critiquing. Tell me what I can do to not look so..." Slowing her movements, she faced him in the darkness, awaiting his words.

"I would not know what to say," he eventually stated.

"Come now," she said. "Let us not pretend that the sight of me dancing offends your eyes—"

"No, you could never," he mumbled quickly. "Not you, that is to say... I only..."

Sensing his reluctance and unspoken confessions, Christine cautiously walked over to him, her fingers flexing with restrained bravery as she slid her hand into his, silently commending herself when he did not pull away. Not wishing to appear forceful, she slowly began to step backwards, gently pulling his arm as she went, willing him with her eyes to follow her. He remained still for a long moment before the darkness seemed to part before him, allowing him passage into the light.

Guiding his body, Christine boldly pulled him closer, concentrating on positioning his limp hands, mindful of a single thought. With his height, he would not make the most ideal partner and she could only imagine the awkward placement of long limbs next to her petite ones. Nevertheless, she continued to work graciously, motioning for him to stand still as she began to position herself in front of him.

Numb to her touch, Erik could only observe, his eyes burning with curiosity and discovery, as she reached for him and pulled his free hand to her waist. He did not give himself the small pleasure of allowing his fingers to rest against her back before he retracted his arms.

Christine frowned and dropped her arms to her sides as she studied him with an expression of guilt. "I did not mean to make you uncomfortable."

 _Uncomfortable_? He forced himself to laugh. Her precious words were now driving his heart as naturally as air did his lungs. "The last thing I would want to do is spoil your day, but I really _must_ decline. When I said that I do not dance I meant it. I... _cannot_ dance."

"Cannot?" she echoed back to him.

He turned his head away from her and somehow she knew what he meant without him saying a single word. The weight of those unspoken words fell onto her just as another piece of his armour fell to the floor and, suddenly, an image unfurled in her mind. In Erik's place now stood a small boy, his youthful eyes yearning to learn, to devour and retain.

"I would like to dance with you, Erik." She spoke to the child in him, softly and without a shred of malice. "I will teach you. Would you like that, Erik? I am no great dancer, but I think I will suffice. I have always wondered what it would be like to be a teacher, your teacher," she added and, with a smile, she extended one of her hands towards him, a gesture offered to her by many a gentleman in the past. "Come," she murmured, "we shall look foolish together."

Erik could not decide whether he longed to fall into her arms or turn his back on her, but suddenly overwhelmed by memories he had once thought faded, he could not bring himself to even look her in the eye. "I couldn't ask you to do that—"

"But you are not," she retorted. "I am insisting."

Closing the distance between them, Erik paused before placing his hands on her, exactly where she had positioned them before. He held her timidly then, like a priceless vase he did not want to risk breaking, as she whispered instructions and encouraging words into his ear, gently correcting him whenever he went astray. Grateful that she did not pry for answers about times he did not wish to remember, he allowed his young protégé to teach him. Her patience and light temperament astounded him and he felt a strange feeling spreading in his chest, warming his body as her smiles fanned the flames of his accomplishment. His accomplishment. Could it be that she was... proud of him? He hoped that were true, then perhaps she would allow him to dance with her more often.

A fast learner, Erik soon was able to move around the room with his teacher pressed more securely to him. Though he would never become a virtuoso or even a passable dancer, it did not matter, not when his clumsy efforts resulted in her sweet smiles.

"For a beginner, you are..."

"Disastrous?" Erik offered.

"No," Christine chided, squeezing the hand that held hers so determinedly. "I was merely going to say that I am impressed at how quickly you were able to pick up the steps."

"Ah," he said, gazing down at her with unbridled adoration. "Your lies are obvious, Christine, but they are kind."

"I speak the truth," she insisted, feigning insult at his accusation until she turned her head to the left and noticed the quiet presence of the music box. As her feet brought her to a halt, she could not help but laugh. "We cannot dance in silence."

After excusing herself to tend to the little mechanical box, Christine found herself unable to move and she turned her head back questionably towards Erik, not resisting his firm hold on her. Though rigid, she could still feel his spindly fingers twitching at her hand and waist before promptly releasing her and drawing back, his mask pointed to the floor.

"I do not think I will continue," he said, hesitantly watching her expression every time his eyes would dare dart to her figure. "But, if you so wish it, I shall play for you whilst you dance. As an accompanist, I think would serve you better."

"Very well," she responded after a moment's thought. "Though if you are to play then I would rather listen, if you do not mind."

Hearing her voice evenly matched with his own, both ascending to the Heavens in perfect pitch and ease, would have been the only thing that would have marked this day as one of his happiest. But for Erik, to make her happy in return, was an even greater joy altogether and so it was with the deepest respect that he had happily replied, "Not at all."

Knowing what his music brought to her, he would have happily exhausted himself in the pursuit of her favour. He would have entertained her for hours, even _days_ , playing her pieces from his extensive collection; floating arpeggios on the soft piano keys and deep, languid phrases on the violin. He would have played until his fingers had bled, and then some. Everything he did was for her, to please her.

But he could not spend the remainder of the evening selfishly keeping her to himself. Not on this night. Reluctantly, he finished his current piece, hands pressed to the now closed lid, as he turned to face her.

Though she wore no visible signs on her face, Christine secretly suffered a brief bereavement as his playing came to an end, which was soon replaced by a building sense of anticipation. A smile slowly formed on her face as the thought dawned on her.

"Is it time for our visit now?" Removing his hands from the instrument, he nodded, confirming her suspicions. Grinning wildly, Christine took no time in bounding towards her bedchamber and, in her excitement, almost forgot to compose herself. "I shan't be long!" she called from the threshold before disappearing from view and into her room.

Her smile was firmly weaved into place as she discarded her present dress in exchange for the deep blue evening dress she had left lying out on her bedside chair. Her eager fingers curled around the fine material and went to work putting it on. After this quite strenuous task, she smoothed out the skirts before walking slowly to her vanity, her eyes hovering around the wood nervously, her lean fingertips resting against the surface, hesitant to grace the sight of the necklace once again. Raising her hand, she moved it to slowly hover over the piece of jewellery before delicately picking it up by the clasp. Fingers fumbling behind her neck, she worked quickly without aid to fasten the necklace.

After wrapping a velvet jacket around her shoulders, she walked over to the full length mirror on her armoire and surveyed her attire from head to toe. The dress really was beautiful, as was the necklace, and while gazing over the both of them, she suddenly found herself smiling again, not from the prospect of her visitation but from the sight of her gifts, the mementos of Erik's love. She knew that he did not procure them in the same way usual suitors did, wishing to sway a young lady's judgement with the promise of material goods. She knew it could never be that simple between them and she found herself treasuring her gifts even more.

Shaking her head, Christine then glided across the floor to open her door. Parting the curtains, she saw Erik standing tall in the middle of the room, his hands behind his back and his foot tapping impatiently against the rug. Even from behind she could see that he was smartly dressed, as always, in black, with a large hat that was surely broad enough to cast most of his face in shadow. Descending the few steps leading down from her door, Christine walked towards him.

"How do I look?" she asked after he had heard her approach and had turned.

The sight of her, draped in elegance, with _his_ gifts around her body and throat, made him wish for the courage to seize her hand and kiss it. "You are a vision," he stated instead, knowing it was the truth.

"Shall we go, then?"

o0o

The journey above ground was daunting enough without an adequate amount of light. Every time they walked down these pathways, most of which were slightly damp and produced a most rotten stench, Christine did not feel safe, not even when she was clutching so desperately onto Erik's hand as he led her forward. Each whisper of a step echoed loudly through those never ending corridors and each tiny sound that was not made by their footsteps caused her to jump in fright.

"I think I will enjoy seeing Caesar again," she said, in dire need to keep herself occupied on something else other than her childish fears of what could be lurking around the next corner. She had grown rather fond of that stallion over the past few months and had always greeted him with a gentle stroke to the nose, his well groomed hairs tickling her palm, and he had always responded with a grunt and a soft nudge to her shoulder.

"And he shall be the happiest creature to walk on four legs when next you meet," Erik replied, taking his time to navigate their way through, more for her comfort than anything. "But we will not be needing him tonight."

"Why ever not?"

"I have made other arrangements," he answered ambiguously, taking a sharp turn to his right.

She repeated his words, a speculative frown appearing on her face. "Other arrangements? How are we to travel if not by horseback?"

"Ah, you would not want me to spoil the surprise now, would you?"

"I do not like surprises," she grumbled beside him as she stared at their barely visible hands, seeing again that darkness which now followed her.

It was always with her now, _still_ with her. Everywhere she went, it followed, and she was afraid. Not of _it_ , but of herself. She was afraid that the darkness, which had sheltered her for so long, had become very much a part of her being. It was _Erik_ _'_ _s_ darkness that she had found poisoning the deepest corners of her mind, filling her head with unspeakable thoughts. It was on these occasions that she had questioned her sanity and how on earth he had been able to tolerate such things for years on end...

Shamefully, she had found that the more time she spent in the shadows, the more she was growing warily accustomed to them. Christine despised it and yet she was drawn in at the same time. Under its influence, who knew of what she was capable.

A door lock being slid open brought her back to her surroundings and as Erik silently pushed the heavy door open, the rusty hinges gave out a cry of displeasure as their unused joints creaked with age. He gently pulled Christine along behind him, out of the passageway and finally into the secluded clearing she vaguely remembered from months before. The thick veil of twilight covered the entire glade and Christine felt her eyes flit about in an attempt to soak up the beauty in front of her. As she moved forward, she noticed how the mist at her feet would part before her and as she peered at the ground, a sudden coldness claimed her hand.

Erik had vanished.

A small noise of vexation left her mouth at his sudden disappearance. Under usual circumstances she would have waited in this very spot for his return with Caesar, but he had said that they would not be travelling by horseback tonight and so she was forced to stand there, alone and ignorant.

When his figure once again appeared, he silenced her forthcoming words with a single finger to his lips. She could only stare at him with a bemused look on her face as he took her hand and led her in the direction he had just come from. As they progressed, the trees and the mist became less dense and they soon came to a halt next to a gravel road.

"Erik," she whispered, the sharp nip of the wind toying at her skin and teasing her hair, "what are we doing out here?"

"You shall see soon enough," he replied, his head hidden by the large rim of his hat.

Christine was about to question him further when she heard a faint rumble in the distance. As this trundling sound became more distinguishable, she realised that it was the sound of hooves and wheels. A carriage! She gasped and did not pause to think before trying to drag Erik through the trees once more, needing their concealment now more than ever. She did not want to risk either of them being seen, or worse, recognised. Despite her strong willed efforts to hide, Erik, surprisingly, remained as solid as rock and was unaffected by her attempts to move him.

"Why are you just standing there?" she asked pressingly, her eyes darting about to see if the carriage was in sight yet. "We must go! What if we are recognised and someone alerts the authorities! Imagine what they would do to you if they were to find out that you are still alive and in Paris! Oh Lord, we must make haste!"

Erik only chuckled in sheer amusement. "I appreciate your concern, but your delightful ravings are in vain, my dear."

" _Ravings_?" she all but hissed. "Pray, why are my _ravings_ in vain?"

"Because this carriage arrives for us." As he spoke, two horses began to round the nearby corner.

"For... for us?" she stuttered just as the carriage came to a complete standstill at their feet and she stared up at its plain black exterior—completely inconspicuous in every way.

Stepping back, she could not help but peer at the coach driver—a plump sort of fellow who seemed to curl into himself. His eyes shone warily ahead, knuckles turning white with the amount of force he was exerting on the reins.

"You know where you are to take us?" Erik asked the driver, his tone flat but assertive. The driver nodded his heavy head as he continued to stare at nothing but the empty road which stretched out before them. "Good." Erik then turned his back on the driver and proceeded to open the carriage door. Bowing slightly, he extended his hand gracefully, his skeleton fingers unfurling one by one in a friendly offer of assistance. "After you, my dear." The driver now forgotten, Christine saw nothing but his hand and she graciously accepted it, stepping swiftly inside. "I shall only be a moment," he added before shutting the door behind her.

Settling into the seat, Christine turned to her left to peer out of the window but merely stared at the glass in curiosity. It was uncommonly thick, making the environment outside even darker and more obscured. Her hand crept up towards the pane and she pressed her fingers against the surface. It was ice cold.

At that moment, the door swung open and Christine was met with the soft breath of night air. She allowed her greedy lungs to take in this cool breeze and calm her unsteady heart as Erik climbed in and closed the door.

She frowned at him as the carriage jolted into a start. "Erik?"

"Yes?" he said, studying her every move, trying to figure out what exactly was troubling her.

"Why are the windows tinted?" She nodded her head towards the one on her left and then turned back towards him. "Is it entirely necessary?"

"Is it not self-explanatory?"

"Oh," she murmured. It was a precaution, she realised. "Well," she continued, trying to change the subject, "where are you taking me? May I know?"

"Ah, now that is a surprise," he replied, a sense of smugness creeping over him.

Christine relaxed into the seat behind her and placed her hands in her lap. "I told you I do not like surprises," she mumbled for the second time that night.

"You will like this one," he told her cryptically, an unfamiliar glint reflecting in his eyes as they trailed from her face and down to her throat, where the necklace lay. "You are beautiful," he told her, speaking his thoughts aloud before the rational part of his mind could reprimand or stop him. "I... I am pleased that you are wearing it."

Her hand found his in the shadows and she held it tightly, the blush which then bled across her cheeks almost stunning her into a silence. "I wear it for you."

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you for the continuing support!**


	12. Chapter 12

" _Oh_ ," Christine said, startled at the carriage's sudden halt. "Have we arrived? Where are we?"

"Go outside and see."

She did as he commanded and in front of her was a door, a very familiar door at that. A girlish gasp escaped her lips and she twirled around on the spot, her hands bracing the sides of the carriage as her eyes gleamed. "The Rue Saint-Honoré! Oh, thank you!"

Erik smiled gently before nodding his masked head at the house behind her, wary of remaining as far from the light as possible. "Instead of dawdling on the streets, my dear, you might want to knock. Someone might see you. I will be here when you are finished."

"Oh, yes, of course! Thank you again!" she cried before shutting the door and turning to knock briskly on the wood. She had to wait but a fraction of a moment before the door opened and a tiny face appeared. "Simone!" she exclaimed as the young girl smiled back at her.

"Mademoiselle Christine," she said, stepping back and allowing her entrance. "Please come inside. We have been expecting you," she added, gesturing towards the open doored parlour.

At her curious words, Christine raised an eyebrow. "You have?" she asked in vain as the girl proceeded to scamper off into the kitchen. Christine was about call her back when she suddenly realised to what the girl had been referring.

"Christine!" a voice squealed from inside the parlour.

A wide grin spread across Christine's face as she recognised the person now bounding towards her. "Meg! This _is_ a surprise," she said, pulling her into a rough embrace, both females giggling in sheer amusement at their own eagerness. "How good it is to see you again," she continued, holding her excited friend away at arm's length before her little, yet strong, arms could succeed in suffocating her. "Let me see you! Oh, how well you look!"

Indeed she did. Meg Giry was a youthful child of eighteen, but did not indulge in others announcing her age. Her slender body and lovely face, tailored with a smooth olive-toned complexion, were ahead of her mind in terms of maturity and Christine always inwardly envied her for that.

"I am extremely well, thank you. And what of your health, Christine?" Meg asked, smiling at her with a genuine kindness she had not witnessed in months.

"If you two ladies have quite finished, then perhaps I will be able to wish my daughter a happy birthday," another voice said from behind them.

"Mamma!" Christine exclaimed, rushing inside the parlour and over to where her guardian was seated on her armchair.

"Happy birthday," she spoke lovingly, gently wrapping two shaking arms around her ward's frame before leaning over to kiss her cheek. As Christine straightened, Mamma Valérius commented, "You are glowing, dear," as her aged eyes fell up and down her decadently draped figure. "And your clothing, well, I must say it is the finest thing I have seen you in."

"And that necklace!" Meg chimed, walking towards her friend with her fingers outstretched towards the jewels. "How beautiful. Are those real?" she asked, staring at them in disbelief, wondering where she had got them from, or rather _who_ she had got them from.

"I have a suspicion that they are, and I would appreciate it if you keep your prying fingers away from them!" Christine teased, causing her friend to giggle once more. It only took a little to make Meg Giry laugh.

"Please sit, Christine," Mamma Valérius said, extending an old hand towards a nearby chair. From there they proceeded to talk about anything their minds could muster up, each sipping occasionally from a glass of sherry. "How is your dancing coming along at the Opéra, Meg?" Mamma Valérius enquired.

Christine gazed down at her lap as the subject was broached, but the two women did not seem to notice her momentary lapse in conversation.

"Very well, Madame, thank you for asking," Meg replied eagerly. "Maman says I have made excellent progress recently, which I am very pleased about. Although, we have had trouble keeping a suitable number of cast members ever since the... incident." Her eyes flickered to Christine at that moment and suddenly she wished that they were alone. There was so much that Meg wanted to ask her friend about that night below the Opéra. How little she had been told and, like a child, it felt as though she were being sheltered from the truth.

"I hope for your sake," Mamma Valérius murmured, "as well as everyone else's, that business has not been terribly bad these past few months." A frown appeared on her already wrinkled brow as she tried to recall the distant details. "How long has it been since the incident? Forgive me for asking, but my memory is not what it used to be."

Christine gazed sympathetically towards her surrogate mother and was about to murmur a few soft words of reassurance when, to her surprise, Meg replied, "Eight months, Madame. It has been eight months."

 _Eight months_.

"How time has flown," Christine whispered to herself pensively, echoing her very own words from the day before. "But how have things changed since we last saw each other, Meg? What news is there from the Opéra and its... occupants?" Her words hung in the air for a moment before she regretted even opening her mouth. To anyone else, 'occupants' was just another word to describe the theatre dwellers, the stage hands, the performers. But, to Christine, it much more than that—the musicians, the managers... the patrons.

"Everyone is well," Meg replied and though she did not realise her friend's true meaning, she still held a suspicion over her. "We are slightly concerned, however, since we have just started rehearsals and our new Prima Donna seems to have taken things into her own hands."

This caught Christine's attention. A new Prima Donna? "When did this happen? What ever happened to Carlotta?" A wavering worry settled itself deep into the pit of her stomach and yet she drank more from the small glass in her hand just so that she would not have to speak again. After all these torturous years, had Erik finally succeeded in banishing the ill voiced soprano from the stage? Immediately, she berated herself for thinking such a dreadful thing, but... there was always going to be that lingering doubt with Erik and that was what Christine feared.

"Her name is Amélie-Armand-Duram," said Meg, pulling her out of her thoughts, "and I dare say she has more of a mouth to her than Carlotta did! I do not know if you have heard that we are rehearsing _Le Nozze Di Figaro_ at the moment, but, even if you have, you would not be able to comprehend the amount of stress that she is able to cause everyone."

Christine swallowed a forming lump in her throat but could not bring herself to look her friend in the eye as she asked, "And... Carlotta's fate?"

"Oh," Meg sighed and nonchalantly leaned back into her chair. "She accepted an offer to sing at La Fenice a couple of months back. You know that after she croaked, she rested for several months until returning to finish _La Traviata's_ run. Though, you know, as well as I, that her reputation in Paris would never recover after such an _unforgettable_ performance. Sometimes I cannot help but pity her, but that was when she received her offer. You should have seen her reaction! Overjoyed, she was. Though, to be perfectly honest, I feel sorry for Italy for playing host to such a prestigious, irritable, old hag!" Mamma Valérius tutted at Meg's enthusiastic words and wondered whether the drink was to blame, or whether her tongue was just naturally loose. "Oh, but she really was dreadful though, was she not, Madame?" she asked, turning to the elderly woman. "That does not explain why she was so popular, though."

An offer; that was all that had happened. Christine released a deep breath, exhaling all her worked up worry. She could not believe that she had even suspected Erik of being responsible for Carlotta's departure! How foolish she was... and how guilty she now felt.

"Perhaps her looks had something to do with it," Mamma teased. "After all, some only go to the opera to see the pretty faces and a pair of legs on show."

Meg snorted rather loudly which made the old woman grimace and gaze down at the last droplets of sherry which swirled about rather fiercely in the young girl's hand. She hoped she would not ruin the furniture in her merriment. Christine, on the other hand, could not blame her friend; Meg's manners had always been appalling. "Yes, but one could hardly call her beautiful."

"Meg Giry, you should hold your tongue if you know what is good for you," Christine scolded her as her mouth curled up into a smile, betraying her stern words.

"It is true! She was no great beauty." Meg laughed loudly, her dulcet tones filling the air with a pleasant atmosphere. "Giry... Yes, I do suppose I shall miss that name."

Christine's smile fell in confusion as she turned her head between the two women. Perhaps she had missed something in her daze. "What are you talking about?" she asked, leaning forward.

Beaming, Meg bit her lip before blurting out quite rapidly, "Oh, Christine! I am to be married!"

A warmth crept over her neck as her eyes grew wide, her mouth hung open in utter shock. "Married?" Christine repeated. It seemed to be the only word she could say.

"Yes! And not to just any old pompous man. No, I shall be wed to none other than the Baron de Barbazac," she exclaimed proudly. "I would even go as far as to declare him the most handsome man in all of France!"

By the end of her little speech, Meg's excitement was barely contained and she appeared to be summoning every ounce of her self-control not to bounce up and down in her chair. Christine, on the other hand, was aghast. While it was true that Meg was not much younger than herself, and she knew of many girls who married before their eighteenth year, _she_ certainly was not thinking of marrying at that age. And what of her promising career? Had she not just said that she has been making excellent progress? Would Meg throw away her chance at performing in Paris... like she did?

"My girl, congratulations!" Mamma Valérius told her. "You will make him a fine wife to be sure."

"Oh, I do hope so, Madame." Meg turned to look at Christine, her head titled, and in that instant she knew that something was troubling her. "Christine, won't you say something? You are, after all, in the presence of a Baroness-to-be," she laughed haughtily, but to no avail.

Christine blinked a few times before managing a short reply. "A Baroness..."

"Yes," Meg spoke softly, sceptical over whether or not her friend was pleased.

And, at first, Christine was not pleased. Not at all. Jealousy, untapped and potent, coursed through her veins at the thought of the forthcoming marriage. Meg would have everything she ever wanted; a loving husband and a household of her own where she could live in comfort and security. A sigh escaped her and as Christine's tongue darted out to wet her lips, she noted that the bitterness there was not a result of the sherry. Meg wore the veil of a blushing bride and Christine knew all too well of its rose coloured perspective. Anger, pity, remorse, regret, confusion... It all began to bubble within her until her eyes shone with unshed tears.

"Meg," she whispered, grateful for the softness in her tone as she gazed at her friend in only adoration now. "Oh, do not mind me! I am so happy for you. Can we see the ring?" she asked after recalling no ring being on her finger when she had first arrived. Meg nodded and held out her left hand, impatiently waiting for a reaction.

Sure enough, a ring was placed on her finger and Christine wondered how she could ever have missed it. It was a beautiful silver band, encrusted with a sapphire and diamonds. Though a sharp pang shot through her chest at the sight of it, Christine had to admire how fitting and natural it appeared upon Meg's hand.

" _Oh_ ," Meg breathed out a content sigh, pulling her hand back to inspect the ring herself. "I feel ecstatic when I am near him!" A sad smile suddenly broke out over Christine's now trembling mouth, reminiscent of her past love. She did not wish to stop Meg's giddiness though, not when this was the happiest Christine had ever seen her. "I think I am so in love that I fear my heart will jump out of my chest when I next see him."

"Congratulations again, Meg," Christine whispered quietly.

"What is the matter? Have I upset you?" Meg widened her eyes. "I should not have mentioned it! Why did I ever open my mouth? You should have silenced me."

"Oh, you are silly sometimes." Christine tried her best to laugh. "It is perfectly natural for you to be excited about your marriage, so do not be worried about keeping your emotions hidden." She looked down at her feet and shuffled uncomfortably in her seat. "Meg?"

"Yes?"

"May we speak privately for a moment or so? There is something... I would like to discuss with you."

"Only if Madame Valérius allows it," Meg said, casting a grin in the older woman's direction.

Mamma Valérius looked over the rim of her glass and nodded before taking a larger sip of her sherry, barely taking notice as the younger women rose from their seats. Christine thanked her with a hasty glance before walking into the dining room with Meg in tail. As soon as the door swung shut behind them, Christine froze.

"What is it that you wish to talk about?" Meg asked, her tone laden with concern.

"If I am not so bold in asking," she started, not quite believing herself to be saying this question aloud. "I wish to know, how did you first know you were in love?"

A frown creased the young dancer's forehead. "You surely know what it feels like to be in love. Why ask me?"

Sighing, Christine sat down on the nearest chair, leaning her elbows on the polished surface of the dining table. "Please tell me, Meg."

Meg, too, sat down to the left of her, leaning forward to rest her hand gently upon her friend's sleeve. "Christine, why do you need me to tell you? Are you... Are you doubting your feelings for the Vicomte? Are you not in love with him?"

"I am... not certain," she started slowly, staring straight at her, sparing her no hidden view of her emotions. "I am not certain of anything anymore. I find myself re-thinking everything I have felt and have known within the past year and a half. I am so lost at times that I do not even know what is real. To make matters even more baffling, I do not think I believe in my feelings for Raoul all those months ago." She laughed dryly, looking down at the comforting hand on her arm. "No," she continued. "No, that is a lie. I am adamant I loved him. I did, I am most certain of it."

"Then," Meg began gently, "what is it that you are wondering about?"

"I feel... changed. I do not know how to explain it. I only know that I have grown to care for someone and it terrifies me _,_ " she whispered.

"I... Who are you speaking of?" Meg said slowly, her loose grip slowly tightening in understanding. "Oh, Christine, you do not mean the Opera Ghost! I can scarcely believe what I am hearing!"

"Oh, Meg." Christine sighed, drooping her head wearily into her hands. "He is but a man; he is not a ghost. A man with a troubled and tortured soul. That is where I have been, Meg, with _him_ , in his domain." She looked at her hands. "And he loves me, most passionately. But it scares me, his love. I am not sure that I can return it on the same heights. I... I fear that it... that _I_ will not be enough to save him."

Erik's devotion and, what one might call, eccentric declarations always managed to startle Christine and leave her awkwardly, yet patiently awaiting his next move. But she found the lengths to which he would dive for her affection to be truly awful. He was willing to kill for her favour, but did not seem to understand that killing would also drive her away. She did not wish to believe that he was too far gone. She was still certain that there was good left in him, and there was. She had seen it.

Meg slowly removed her hand from Christine's arm and settled it in her own lap. She exhaled slowly, taking her time to process this new information. "All this time I thought, we _all_ thought, that you were living in retirement outside of Paris. And now I find out that it wasn't true. You have been living with _him_."

"Please, you mustn't tell anyone," Christine said, reaching for Meg's hand and ensnaring it with a sudden surge of strength. "Promise me."

Meg studied her and leaned into the back of her chair. Anxiously, she turned her head away and glanced down at the floor. "I will promise, but I do not pretend to understand what is going through that head of yours. There was so much I had wanted to ask you... and now I am sure I want to."

Unexpectedly, Christine smiled. "I do not pretend to know what goes on in my head either. But, tell me, what do they think happened to _him_? Do they truly think him dead? Is he... safe?"

"There have been many rumours around the Opéra," Meg explained, not wishing to dwell on her friend's apprehensive expression. "Some believe that he drowned in his own lake and ended up drifting down the Seine. People are paranoid when they are looking for a corpse, so paranoid that they often mistake others for being said corpse. And that is what happened. On several occasions, men brought in a battered old body claiming it to be him. Others say that he simply vanished since he has not been seen or heard from in these past eight months. Those who believe this are insisting that his work at the Opéra is done and that he is now travelling the lands in search of another building to haunt. It is all very morbid, but there are some who claim that he is still alive and watching us even as we speak... I suppose they would be correct."

"Then... he is safe," Christine concluded, almost to herself.

Meg cared dearly for her friend, though she was at a loss at her behaviour tonight. She had never seen her act in such a way, and to witness her genuine concern for the man who had cheated his way into her soul was startling.

"Christine, may I ask you something?" Meg said, a slight tremor to her words as she considered the possibility. "Are you in _love_ with—"

"No," she said automatically before she pulled her lips into a thin line. "I couldn't be." The thought of not being able to return Erik's love had always been present in her mind, but never had the thought that she could... that she was already...

And yet, it could not be love. With Raoul, it had been so different. With him, she had been safe. There was a time, long before now, when Christine had feared her heart would break if anything were to happen to either of them. She sighed, running a hand over her hair. _Raoul_. She had not seen nor spoken to him in what seemed like an age and she felt guilty for not sparing him a thought now and then. Though, she knew it was for the best. She had encouraged him to move on with his life and she had hoped that he had done just that. Perhaps, she mused, he had even found himself a wife, someone whom he could love unconditionally and without complications. Christine wanted him to be happy.

Her eyes lingered on Meg's engagement ring before asking, "How do you feel when you are with the Baron? Please, I need to know, Meg."

 _Need_ , not _want_. Meg looked into Christine's eyes and saw her silent plea. Though troubled at the very idea of the man who may hold her friend's affections, she could not deny her answers, not when she so desperately asked for them.

"You have asked me this but I cannot give an answer, not one that you had hoped for anyway," Meg murmured, leaning forward and catching Christine's hand. "If I were to answer then it would not be right. If you were to ask another then they would answer differently. Love is a very personal thing. I don't think you would ever hear the same two answers. I could describe a relationship befitting a fairy tale but it would not be enough for you, I think. Am I wrong?"

No, she was not, Christine realised and she squeezed her hand in gratitude.

They rejoined Mamma Valérius soon after that and Christine guiltily drank two more glasses before being handed gifts to take back with her. She accepted these with a smile, though deep down her heart was still restless.

"Christine?" Meg asked, pulling her out of a daze. "Is anything the matter?" Her fingers brushed over her cheek but Christine hardly noticed her touch. "Are you ill?"

"No, I am not, I just... I think I just in need of some air. It was lovely to see you again, but I think that it would be best if I take my leave ow."

Mamma Valérius was saddened by her words but offered her a kind smile. "Of course, dear. You must have the rest of the evening planned anyway. We would not wish to detain you further."

Christine wrapped her arms around her guardian in a warm but brief embrace before turning and meeting Meg's arms.

"I hope you make sense of it all," she whispered in her ear.

Christine pulled back and gave her an acknowledging smile before saying, "I promise I will write to you, to both of you."

She then bid both ladies a fond farewell, pressed a kissed to Mamma Valérius' soft cheek, and walked out the front door, gifts in hand.

Breathing in the night breeze, Christine filled her lungs greedily with each intake. Somehow the air was of a different taste now, more sharp and refined, the darkened atmosphere more comforting compared to her satisfactory time indoors. It was strange—it was almost as though the air had been cured of pestilence.

Christine peered up at the blanket of black. The stars were looking down upon the Earth, each one a watchful eye, observing guardians. She often wondered, if her father were among these eyes.

The distance between Christine and the carriage door seemed to stretch on and on before her but she made her way over to it with determination. She would not let her confusion spoil their evening.

She had not even sat down on the black seat before Erik turned to her and spoke, "I did not expect you back so soon. Are you all right?"

At the very sound of his soothing voice, she relaxed into the seat and breathed deeply, lolling her head to the side to face him. "Yes, I am quite well."

He studied her carefully and found her gaze rather unnerving, even though he was certain that she could not see him properly. "Do you wish to go home?"

She took little time in answering, "Of course not."

He continued to glance her way for a few more seconds, suspicion making his head tilt slightly. "Are you certain you are all right?"

"Yes. I am merely feeling a little... overwhelmed, that is all." It was not completely a lie, but Christine knew that she would need time alone to dwell on her thoughts later. "I was given some lovely gifts from Mamma and Meg," she told him, looking from the decorated boxes and then back up to him. "Thank you for arranging that, Erik."

He grunted and as he tapped the carriage roof, it sprang to life, carrying them into the night.

Christine's hands began to fiddle nervously with her dress skirts, necklace, or any other insignificant detail that she felt needed perfecting or tweaking. As her fingers continued their work she could feel Erik's gaze on her. It did nothing to help her suddenly poor nerves.

"May I tell you something, Erik?"

"What?" he replied distantly, his voice almost lost amongst the sound of the wheels rumbling against the road.

"Did you know that Meg is to be married?"

"Ah," he mumbled, staring at the dark window on his side. "That is good to hear. I often wondered if her mother took my letter seriously or not."

At his queer words, Christine frowned and sat up, questions flying around her head. "What letter?"

When his mask turned towards her, a mysterious glint shone in his eyes, the same mischievous glint she had seen earlier. "Have you ever wondered how Giry came to work for me?"

"No, I haven't. Why?"

"A few years ago, after one performance— _Rigoletto_ , was it?—I left Giry a sealed envelope upon my seat in box five. She would usually leave things such as programmes or notes passed on from the managers and would only return after I had departed. That was how I paid her, you see; I always left a sum on money on my seat. Only this time, I left her a letter addressed to her. I will not bore you with its contents, but I will say this. I wrote that, should she deserve it, little Giry would become a woman of nobility through her marriage to a man of high class."

This was certainly the last thing Christine had expected to hear. "You... you _knew_ that this would happen? _How_? How could you possibly have known?"

"Some things are better left unsaid, would you not agree?" he replied cryptically. All the same, Christine reminded herself to ask Meg in her letter whether or not she knew anything about this. "Now," he continued, "I think a little fresh air is in order, don't you?"


	13. Chapter 13

Faint laughter and merriment could be heard at this hour, but no souls wandered so far as the river, choosing instead to drink and converse in the glowing warmth of the streets. While the masses grew rowdy with wine, a man and a woman quietly made their way past them, seeking only each other's company. Sheltered under the night sky, the two opposing figures walked side by side along the bank of the Seine, their shadows dawdling behind them, teasing and merging with one another. Silently, they walked under the moonlight, a breath apart, neither daring to touch nor move away.

Erik kept both hands tensed. If his hat failed to shield his face properly or they were met with unwanted attention, he steadily held one hand in his pocket, poised to wrap his fingers either around the hat's brim or the weapon he had concealed in his jacket. His other hand, however, remained tense for an entirely different reason. As he walked, he could not stop himself from peering down at his side to see how closely his companion's hand dangled to his and how easy it would have been for him to reach out and claim it. The temptation was great, and yet he did not stray. It was not the first time he had suffered in silence.

Christine was as unaware of what lurked in Erik's jacket as she was of his glances. Gnawing on her lip, she set a steady pace for the two of them, strolling idly as his presence brought about a question she was afraid to answer.

"Are you warm enough?" he suddenly asked her, his voice filling the night air with its quiet resonance.

"Yes, quite warm, thank you," she answered, reassuring him with a brisk smile before turning towards him fully in concern after he wandered over to the wall on the bank. "Are you comfortable being out here, Erik?" she asked, stopping in her tracks. "We can return if you wish—"

"No," he said, holding up a hand to silence her compromise. "You are happy out here, I can see it. This is what you need and I will not deny you it."

"Even at the risk of being seen?" she asked, trying to decipher his mood by the subtly of his movements, the structure of his words. He was so very hard to read and sometimes she wished that he would just simply let her in.

"Not if we are careful, and careful is what we are," he replied, appearing as though he were drilling the words into his mind.

"Very well," she said, "but must you stand there? From the way you are looking at me, I feel as though I am expected to put on a show of some kind."

An uncharacteristic grin shone on Erik's face, despite the mask, as he called to her, "Are you to keep your audience waiting then?"

Christine stared at him in disbelief, but as she then threw her head back in mirth, Erik reminded himself to make her laugh more often. He was such a pitiful thing, he had almost forgotten what it was like to feel... happy.

"You are serious," she concluded and yet, with a gentle nod, she crept towards the edge of the bank.

One leg rose under her skirts and, curiously, it began to move forward and then back, as if it had a mind of its own and could not decide what direction it wanted to go in. A sudden impulse overtook her and she began to walk along the edge as though she were braving a tightrope. Her arms stretched out on either side of her as she stepped carefully and wobbled a little. A childish grin spread across her face then, and she bit her lip to contain it.

The tiny movement of her teeth catching her lower lip managed to draw a shaky breath from Erik as he watched her from the wall. In moonlight, she was quite ethereal and she appeared so youthful to him at that moment, so at peace with herself and with the world. How he envied her.

Christine was yet again unaware of Erik's eyes on her as she ceased her movements and allowed the distant rumble of laughter to fill her ears and warm her heart. She did not know whether it was the atmosphere or simply her giddiness catching up to her, but she felt as though she could do anything she wanted. She even considered skipping down the steps on the bank and dipping her foot into the Seine. How queer, she thought to herself, and she raised a hand to her mouth as a laugh escaped. What had come over her?

That was when she turned her attention to Erik, the smile slipping from her face as she looked at him.

"Christine?" he said, straightening against the wall after having noticed the sobering of her mood. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she mumbled slowly as she frowned. "Yes, quite... quite all right."

Coming away from the water, Christine's movements were almost slurred, her feet dragging themselves across the ground as she attempted to make sense of what was happening to her. Looking back at Erik, she saw that he, too, was studying her. What an enigma this man was, she thought. One minute he would be as pleasant as any other man, and the next he would fall back into this brooding state. His moods changed so rapidly that she found herself struggling to keep up.

He was like a puzzle, one she had tried and failed to solve, like a lone gust of wind on a warm evening's night, like a... No. No, he was not any of those things, she realised. He was beyond analogies and comparisons. He simply... _was._ Freeing her mind of such convoluted thoughts, she allowed her senses to guide her next move.

Gazing at the damp ground on either side of him, she slowly began to edge closer, swaying lightly on each foot as she moved her body forward. Not a single word left her mouth as she stopped but an inch in front of him, lips parted, her own hands poised at her sides. Her eyes roamed the steady stillness of his jacket and she stared at the intricate threading, wondering why her own life could not be like his stitching—perfect and neatly formed, with no loose ends. Anchoring herself to the thought and to him, she boldly leaned forward and rested her head in the crook of his neck, her hands sliding up his chest to curl themselves around his shoulders.

At the sudden feeling of her body against him, Erik fell back against the wall and, astounded that she followed suit, he gave into her, allowing himself the pleasure of her friendly embrace. Only in his moments of wretched vulnerability had she touched him with such ease, but now, here she stood, holding him, _willingly_ holding him, and it broke his heart. How delicately she was pressed to him, almost as if... as if she was a figment of his imagination. He had had hallucinations before; it was not uncommon. Perhaps she was just another one. But no, no, she could not be. Leaning his head back against the cold stone, he was instantly cemented in time and as the coldness bit at his neck, he knew that she was indeed real.

Trembling fingers sought her shoulders, ready to push her away, but they didn't, they simply needed proof of her existence, something tangible that could be reached out to and touched. As Christine breathed out a tremulous sigh, she pressed herself against him more, relishing in the feeling of his acceptance.

But something deeper was driving her now, something foreign yet incorrigible, and it made her... _unafraid._ Her smile was crooked as she closed her eyes and leaned her face closer to his shirt. She whispered words of confusion into him, seeking answers for her troubled mind, as if she believed that the sound of her voice alone could penetrate his cold and guarded exterior.

She spoke so softly and quietly, almost to his larynx itself, but coherency was lost to him for with each word came the tantalisingly accidental brush of her lips over his collar. These muted vowels and consonants were formed against his skin, her breath light yet warm, and Erik found his eyes closing at their touch. With callous thoughts, his body betrayed him and he shamelessly succumbed to the precious feeling of her lips.

And it was heaven.

"Vad är du?" she mumbled in her native tongue, her breath an innocent tease at his throat. "Du förvirrar mig, fascinera mig. Varför vill du att jag nära dig, men du rör mig aldrig? Jag borde inte vill den här... _du_. Varför vill jag vara nära dig? Jag... jag vill röra dig."

At the sound of these unfamiliar words, Erik reluctantly opened his eyes and tilted his head down to regard her curiously, secretly berating himself for not having learned her language. "Christine?"

" _Håll mig_."

"I... do not understand."

Veiled eyes peered up at him and he ceased to breathe as her nose bumped into the cold exterior of the mask. She was so close to him now, so very close. "Neither do I," she whispered into its edge.

Amongst the distant vociferous crowds, she heard a slight intake of breath beside her, sharp and strangled, and she drew back far enough to meet Erik eye to eye.

Treading these unfamiliar waters carefully, he slipped one hand from her shoulder and deftly stroked her rosy cheek with his fingers. Breathing raggedly, Christine welcomed his touch as her eyes flickered back and forth between his face and his hand, her mouth parting at the unfamiliar sensations caused by his gentleness. Before he could withdraw, she experimentally leaned her head into his palm, earning her another sharp intake of breath from him.

Once Erik had regained control over his poor nerves, he curled his free fingers into her shoulder and around her upper arm, afraid to hold her but loath to let her go. His back had stiffened against the wall behind him and he inwardly murmured a string of 'thank you's for its ability to keep him upright. His knees would have given way beneath him long ago, otherwise.

She smiled sweetly at him then and his treacherous eyes dropped to her mouth, staring at it through a haze. His fingers at her face twitched before his thumb ghosted over her lips, his entire body trembling as he felt her delicate breath land on his skin in soft pants. Without even thinking, he languidly slid his thumb down and over her lower lip, gently pulling at it, coating it, wetting...

"Erik?" she whispered, frowning as his eyes snapped up to meet hers with such intensity that she could almost hear the beat of her own heart ringing in her ears.

Words hung on the tip of his tongue, but as he opened his mouth to speak, he found that he could not. Rendered speechless and nearly immobile, he could do nothing but draw nearer, bringing his head down to rest his mask on her forehead. The coolness sent a shiver down her spine and as Erik's fingers trailed down her cheek to her neck, her eyes slid shut in defeat.

"A curious thing," Christine heard herself saying.

"What is?" he replied, his voice curt and raspy, as he tried to block out the torturous sensation of how warm she felt beneath his fingertips.

"What wine can do..."

 _Wine_?

Every limb on his inflamed body ceased to work, freezing and then recoiling as miserable messages were sent through his nerves. He retracted his hands and, with such rigidity that rivalled the wall behind him, he pushed past the demure creature in front of him to stand alone in the shadows. Without looking back at her, he merely stared out into the river, silently digging his fingers into his palm. But he hardly noticed the pain, not even when his nails began to claw at his dry skin.

A sudden breeze sauntered by them, blowing a few of Christine's hairs across her face and it was in that moment, when the coolness reached her cheeks and soothed her burning curiosity, that she understood his behaviour... and her own.

"You have been drinking," he said, wishing to drive his fingers into his ears to forever silence the deafening sound of the voices of hope that whispered so intently to him. "Yes. Yes, all is clear now. I thought I could smell something on your breath, but I... I tried to ignore it. You are intoxicated."

For a brief moment, Christine thought about surrendering to his belief. To allow him to accept this conclusion meant that she had been offered an escape—an excuse that she could very well believe. But, she knew now that this was not the case. The wine, though a factor in her behaviour, had merely encouraged her, had given her the courage to explore her confusion in a way that would normally have made her cheeks burn. Even now, she stood before him, flushed at the memory of her brazenness, and yet she could not condemn her actions. But neither could she blame them entirely on an excess of spirits.

"I am not intoxicated," she defended righteously, knowing that it was the truth and that she would be damned before he would think her so low. "I know my own mind."

"Of course you do," he said gently, but his words dripped with dry humour and an undeniable sense of self-deprecation. Walking briskly back to their sheltered spot, he looked to her and then to the ground, feeling the open air suddenly constricting, as though it were clasping a hold of his lungs. Casting his eye around them to make sure they were quite alone, he leaned his masked face down to her ear and spoke in vile softness. "Do you mean to say that you are truly aware of your actions, that they were not... under another influence?"

"Why do you say this?" she asked, now wishing that she could turn back time, if only a few seconds, so that she would have had the sense to think before the words had slipped so easily from her mouth.

"Because I do not think you so reckless a woman as to... behave the way you did." He was choosing his words carefully; plucking them strategically. "Without spirits, you would have never—"

"I would never have what, Erik?" she challenged, pushing herself to the limit of her own knowledge and understanding. Confusion still ran amuck throughout her body, but she did as much to understand it as she did to ignore it. "Do you really think so little of yourself?" She swallowed thickly. "And of me?"

"I think you have had too much to drink and are in need of rest."

"Oh?" she said, raising her eyebrow. "And what if I were to tell you that the wine—"

"Yes?" he pried gently, turning his head close to hers. He had tried to keep his voice steady to alleviate the frantic whirling of his blood, but after years of only being able to hear him, Christine had come to know his tones well and was able to sense the slight tremor which hid, pulsating at the back of his throat.

"No," she said, an obnoxious grin spreading across her face. "No, I do not think I shall tell you after all."

With one last glance up at him, she began to walk back the way they came, adamant that she would behave as stubbornly as he was, and though she did not hear anything above the nearby crowds, she knew that Erik was tailing along behind her.

Matching her pace after a short pause, Erik remained in the shadows, the brim of his hat shielding the view of her face from his inquisitive eyes. "Are all women so maddening?" he grumbled when he could no longer bear the silence between them.

"Some are known to be," Christine quipped heartily, though nothing about her expression would have told him that she was jesting. "Shall we return to the carriage?" she continued sombrely, unconsciously picking up her speed. "I seem to have caught a sudden chill."

"If that is what you wish," he complied before risking a glance at her face and thoroughly regretting it. Her eyes! By God, he felt as though their ambiguity was enough to put a curse on him, that he would be forced to suffer forever without ever knowing the true meaning of the light which now sparkled within them.

As the hour grew late, they entered the carriage and allowed their weary bodies to tumble gently side to side under the uneven terrain. Unlike before, when Erik had sat beside her, he now resided in the seat opposite her, stoically keeping his head trained to the window.

In the dim light, Christine studied him. His posture was fixed, too formal, and his back lined up perfectly with that of the seat—he appeared more like a statue at times like this. His jaw was locked, his hands were clenched tightly, held over his knees, and her gaze seemed to linger there, on his long and spindly fingers.

In the quiet of the carriage, she recalled their touch, the soft way they had caressed her skin... and the way his skin had felt against her quivering lips. It would have been too much now if she were to lean forward and seize his hand, though.

What was this dangerous and yet irresistible pull that had always drawn her near him and which was now making her wish that he would reach over and take hold of her hand, her face, her _waist_? Such intimacy was taboo between them. At least, that was what it had always felt like.

Breathing deeply, Christine struggled to maintain control over her unchaste thoughts, but it was only after his dark eyes had flickered to hers that she finally looked away.

She had once thought that wine would dull her mind, that it would turn the rational into incoherent nonsense and that she would simply take leave of her senses. This experience had been altogether different, however. Her senses had, in fact, been heightened and a strength had flowed through her warm body, both foreign and illicit. Never before had she been so compelled to act upon an impulse, despite how intrepid and brazen it appeared to be, and it had given her the courage to be so bold.

Silence continued to flood the small space surrounding them for the remainder of the journey, following them still as they walked back through the endless growth. Once they arrived underground, and all too anxious to retreat into her bedchamber, Christine began to swiftly haul herself and her gifts across the rug until his voice pierced the air.

"Your evening was pleasant, I hope?" he asked, leaning against the piano lid with his tailored back to her.

"Very pleasant, yes," she replied truthfully, the sweet remnants of wine still tickling her tongue. "Thank you."

"Good," he whispered, nodding his head slightly. "That is good."

Why did he not turn and look at her? She wondered this hopelessly as she stood staring at his slouched figure. And then, suddenly, he did turn, his shoulders hunched and his mouth a thin, pale line.

"Christine—"

"Yes?"

His hand began to twitch and stretch out in front of him and the urge to drop her gifts and run to him overcame her. Slowly, so slowly, did his body begin to lean forward, as if he, too, were fighting the impulse to come closer. And propriety be damned because she wished that he would have come to her in that moment. Her memory alone was not enough to satisfy her and she silently begged for his sinful embrace once more.

But when he did move, his actions were no more than a retraction of his hand, and he resolved himself, trailing his aching fingers along the keys of the piano, hating himself for not being contented with their coolness after he had touched such softness.

"Goodnight, Christine," he finally said, sitting down and allowing his hands to pour out countless adagios. He continued this way until he did not feel her presence anymore and the gentle sound of a door closing reached his ears before he spoke again, his voice one with the notes he created. "Goodnight... my love."

* * *

 **A/N: I hope this slightly early chapter didn't disappoint! I also don't pretend to know Swedish, so if anyone knows the language and can see a mistake, please tell me.**

 **"Vad är du?"= "What are you?"**

 **"Du förvirrar mig, fascinera mig. Varför vill du att jag nära dig, men du rör mig aldrig? Jag borde inte vill den här... _du_. Varför vill jag vara nära dig? Jag... jag vill röra dig." = "You confuse me, fascinate me. Why do you want me near you, but you never touch me? I should not want this... you. Why do I want to be close to you? I... I want to touch you." **

**"Håll mig." = "Hold me."**


	14. Chapter 14

"O mystic metamorphosis! My senses into one sense flow—her voice makes perfume when she speaks, her breath is music faint and low!"

As Baudelaire's words rolled off of Erik's tongue and the soft thud of a book closing reached her ears, Christine opened her eyes and leaned against the armrest of her chair, lost within a whirlwind of delicious phrasings. The warmth from the fire had managed to relax Erik enough for him to sit beside her in his own chair, but his face was still barred from the light. How uncomfortable he must have been.

"Thank you," she told him after a short silence ensued, her voice barely rising above the crackle of the flames. "That was lovely."

Over the weeks following her birthday, Erik had taken to reading to her and she had silently enjoyed both his attentiveness and his company. His vast collection of battered spines and faded prints had proved themselves a kindly indulgence, and he had even read to her foreign texts in their original language. Upon seeing her quizzical expression, he had soothed her qualms and entreated her to a lesson, teaching her the rhythm of the exotic words. The dear girl could not quite grasp some of the harder pronunciations, but Erik so dearly loved to hear her try.

"Shall I read another?" he asked, eager to please her, if but for a little while longer. "I shall read on into the night, if you ask it of me. Or would you rather retire? I suppose it is late."

"I think I will stay here," she replied, not wanting to admit that she was enjoying his company too much to leave. "It is not yet eleven o'clock," she added with a smile, glancing up at the old-fashioned clock which now stood in the room. "But do not let me keep you from your work if that is what you wish to do."

Christine had lived underground for almost nine months now and winter was approaching fast. The day that had followed her birthday was spent by herself, amidst the slight pounding in her head, creating a calendar in the hopes of restoring her sanity after countless weeks of not knowing the date or month. Yet this was merely a distraction, a task set out to keep her frantic mind subdued. Her behaviour on the night of her birthday had been wanton, though innocent, brought on by curiosity, confusion and wine. But she could no longer deny that urge, more intoxicating than spirits and deeper than wonderment, which had spurred on her actions. She could no longer deny that she wanted his touch.

An embrace, a kind caress, his hand in hers—but even the simplest of touches he did not grant her.

And so, as the days after that passed, Christine became aloof. Remaining pensively quiet, she preferred to keep to herself, distancing herself from Erik, but not all together avoiding him. Whenever he would turn his attentions elsewhere, her large eyes would follow him, watching his hands with—dare she say it?— _longing._

This shameless yearning had merely grown over the weeks, despite her efforts to suppress it. And suppress it she must, she told her herself diligently. It was not right for a young woman to have such thoughts—

"Shall I play something for you instead?" Erik asked, unwittingly pulling his bashful companion out of her own head. "I have nothing I would rather do than spend the remainder of the evening in here. If you would allow it, of course."

"This is your home," she retorted, sitting up. "You do not need my permission to do anything. You may do whatever you want."

"Very well," he said before rising to stand before the fire, his hands resting on either end of the mantle piece. Tilting her head to the side, Christine briefly studied his stance, brooding, reflective, a moment of his time taken to collect his thoughts.

"May I ask something of you?" she said without hesitation, startling both herself and Erik, who, despite his now visible discomfort, did not turn around to face her.

"Very well," he said, his muscles tensing and distorting beneath his clothing, a dreaded anticipation coursing throughout him as he waited for his taciturn companion to speak.

Christine seemed to simultaneously summon courage from within _and_ draw back into herself. Would he have thought her terribly impertinent if she asked him about his past, used this precious time to delve into the unknown? Before, she had been content to not pry, to respect his privacy enough to let the matter drop and to remain passive. But now, there was no more waiting for another piece of his armour to accidentally slip. There was only _now_.

"I would like to know about your past."

Like the fire before his feet, her words spat and hissed at him, so absolved and contained and yet she did not know what she had just unleashed. If she were thus determined to find out information then he was certain that he would eventually give in to her. It was such an innocent question, was it not? And how easy it would have been to give in to her, to bare his soul before her, not caring if judgement lay in wake for him.

But her mind was not made to tolerate such horrors. Out of the revulsion of the world that he had known came a single guiding light. And _she_ had been that light. _She_ had been the antithesis of everything he had ever known. Standing here, he fought a silent battle. How could he corrupt such a precious thing?

"There is so much I do not know."

Her voice, like a balm to his wounds, both soothing and burning, spread and rubbed against his skin, coaxing him to open up, to turn to her.

"And I intend to keep it that way," he muttered, not allowing her to take possession of him.

Christine, who was already on her feet, stood bemused, ready to stand her ground. "Why? What have you to hide?"

"I hide what I must," he growled under his breath, his fingers curling into the wooden mantelpiece, tempted to scrape at the wood with his nails.

"But—"

"I will not tolerate questioning on it, do you understand me?" he snapped, spinning around to face her, every part of his body holding unwanted tension, radiating off a warning that Christine was too stubborn to notice.

"No," she said, standing opposite his dangerous silhouette.

Startled and intrigued by her defiance, he took a step closer to her. "What did you say?"

"I said _no,_ Erik," she repeated with as much authority as she could muster. "I do not understand you."

"You would be very wise as to not venture down this path," he said, shaking his head. "The past is called the past for a reason, Christine. It is so we can forget about it."

"But that's just it," she objected softly, daring to walk forward and reach for his arm, her fingers ready to coil around his shirt. The want to argue had faded from her and in its place stood compassion, overriding and growing. "You haven't forgotten. I can see it in your eyes. It's still there. _They_ are still there, the voices of your past." With her free hand, she raised her fingers towards his cold mask, his trembling face. "They still haunt you, don't they?"

Before either of her hands could come to rest on him, however, he pulled himself out of her reach, his own hands balling up so tightly that they turned a ghastly translucent colour. "I thought I said I would not tolerate questioning on such matters," he snarled, his patience and his resilience wearing thin.

Resolving herself, she approached him again. "But I want to know you," she whispered, "It is about time I knew. I do not know anything about your life before you were my teacher. Are you not curious about my life before becoming your student? If you could only tell me one little thing—"

"Why should I?" he retorted rather haughtily.

The flames cast their fiery gaze over Christine as clarity shone in her eyes. "You do not trust me."

Erik slammed his eyes shut and folded his arms, placing two fingers on the bridge of the mask's nose. "It is not a matter of trust."

"What then?"

"It is not something an innocent like you should hear."

"An innocent?" An undignified snort very nearly left her mouth at his comment. "You cannot protect me forever, Erik. I faced the realities of life when my father died and sooner or later I will witness more—"

" _No_ ," he interrupted. "Not if I can help it, you will not. You know nothing of the true cruelties of this world." He breathed out a weary laugh. "If you did, I doubt you would be the person you are today."

As he lowered himself slowly onto his chair again, Christine witnessed a grand change in him, almost as if he had aged considerably in that moment. So as not to disturb him, she carefully followed his sombre path, pausing briefly before she knelt on the floor, her head tilting to look up at him.

His eyes barely drank her in before they drifted afar, stopping only after they reached the flames, his need for something blinding to overpower his senses complete. "The world shows no mercy to the weak and the different," he told her. "No matter how wonderful it may appear in your little mind, you must understand that it is all a _lie_. All of it. Lies! And the world lies—it wears a mask. It shields its true horridness from people like you. But... Erik would not wish to tell you all of what the world revealed to him during his youth." His hand eerily curled around his knee as his head bent forward in evocative melancholy. "Only that it changed him, shaped him, turned him into something he never wanted to become. A..."

 _A monster_.

His unspoken words mingled in the air with his sigh and Christine tentatively rested her hand on top of his, rubbing her thumb across his knuckles, trying to will away his tension with the tiniest of touches. It was the first time she had touched him in weeks. "Your past may have changed you, but you are changing still."

"No," he protested, his entire focus directed on the small pressure she was applying on his hand. "I _can_ never and _will_ never change. Why are you the only one who cannot see this?"

"Because I know it to be false," she said, looking at the floor in defeat because, on some level, she knew that he would never believe her. He yearned for reassurance and though she was willing to provide it, he was still reluctant to accept it. What exactly did he want from her? What else was there for her to persuade him otherwise?

Her attention moved to their hands, overlapping and still; so very still. He would not accept her words, but he would accept her touch. Gently squeezing his fingers, she watched as his head tilted downwards, his eyes flickering to his knee and then to her face, a frown evident in the narrowing of his eyes despite the dark mask. The corner of her mouth twitched in the beginnings of a smile, but it soon faded as she studied his slumped posture. A few seconds passed before he looked away, uncomfortable under the weight of her tender eyes.

Though Erik had never liked being looked at, he would have gladly endured the stares of a thousand sneering faces if it meant that Christine would look upon him with kindness. The expression in her eyes now was not kind, however, but nor was it spiteful—it was an odd mixture of emotions that he had found hard to determine and he could not bear to sit there under her unreadable scrutiny.

He should have fled. He should have simply stood up and left, brushing her aside to silence her inquisitive mind. He should have shut her out, but here he stayed, like a loyal mongrel who grew docile under a single stroke, and he hated her for it, as he hated himself for letting her.

A gradual pressure, heavier than her hand but all the more soft, suddenly descended onto his knee and Erik stiffened, startled by the slight tickle which was now itching its way across the back of his captured hand. Turning his gaze back to the right, his heart twisted at the sight of Christine's head resting lightly on his leg as strands of her hair fell against his wrist.

For a long while, he merely sat there, savouring the feel of her until he slowly began to raise his free hand. His fingers moved through the air like wind through branches as he traced the area around her head, wondering if she would allow him the small pleasure—no, the _privilege_.

Unstable, but prepared to draw back at any moment, he gently lowered his hand and ran his fingertips through her hair. Christine closed her eyes, smiling inwardly at his submission and at how strangely comforting the gesture felt.

When his fingers stilled in her hair, however, she pulled back and raised herself up on her knees so that she was at eye level with him. She looked at him as she slowly leaned into his hand, still entwined in her waves, before he moved to cradle the back of her head. A silence passed between them, her body swaying gently to the pressure of his fingers, before he bowed his head into his free hand. Christine gazed at him in concern as she, too, lowered her head to try to reach his eyes.

"I will never be a good man," he whispered, threading his fingers deeper through her curls.

"I refuse to believe that."

"But you do not deny it." Instead of arguing further, Erik sat back in his seat and untangled his hand from her, drawing both of them close to his sides. Sensing his withdrawal, Christine slumped, lowering her hand to the ground.

"Do you remember our first few lessons together?" she suddenly asked, turning to glance at the fire.

Frowning, he gave a slight nod of his head. "Why do you ask?"

Christine smiled sadly in her bitter reminiscing. "I had recently lost my father—I was desperate to hold onto anything that would remind me of him. To have all these memories rushing back every time I sang was almost unbearable. The happy memories are harder to endure than the bad ones, at least in my experience anyway, and at the beginning, I almost stopped showing up to our lessons. Did you know that? I would not be surprised if you did, but then again you never revealed anything to me." _And still don't_ , she finished silently in her mind, turning to look at Erik.

"Yet you continued."

"Yes," she answered, sensing his unspoken question. "You brought me something that I had thought lost."

His head slowly spun round until he was completely facing her and asked in the most timid voice, "What was it?"

"Hope," she said, raising her chin. "You brought me hope. Through your teachings, I was able to reach out to my father. But it was through a falsehood, and perhaps I was a little delusional to believe in it, but I so very much _wanted_ to believe. I wanted to believe that my father's words were true, that I really would be visited by... an..." Torn between wanting to drop her eyes to the floor and maintaining his gaze, she released a shaky breath, pain filling her every facial twitch. "How do you think I felt when I found out it was all a lie? Why did you deceive me like that?"

As Erik slowly leaned forward towards her, his head tilted and his mask salient, Christine had to suppress a shudder as his eyes grew darker.

"Why me?" she continued. "You could have made yourself known to anyone at the Opéra, anyone at all." She swallowed a lump at the back of her throat and flicked her eyes away from him. "You chose me."

"Yes," he murmured.

" _Why_?"

She heard him laugh dryly, the noise mixing with the light crackle of burning wood and ascending flames. "I do not know—even now I do not know. When I saw how mournful you were, I wanted you to wallow in your own misery. I wanted you to be miserable. I wanted you to suffer, to know the same pain that I did. But then you sang and I... I felt an inclination towards you, something I had not known for twenty years or so. In you, I saw a part of myself—a small part, but it was still there—I _saw_ it, how I used to be. You looked so fragile and when you raised your voice something inside of me snapped."

Her untrained voice had reached within him and, for the briefest of moments, had made him feel alive again, as though his life _did_ have a purpose. He knew that she would never understand just how important her voice was to him.

At first, he had foolishly thought that if he could train that voice, control it, keep it safe underground with him, then the darkness would not consume him, that he would be free of it, and her love would be his shining light. But the darkness was still consuming him and his hopes of redemption were now slowly diminishing... though, did Christine not see differently? Did she not just say that he was capable of change; that he was _changing_ still? Oh, his sweet girl. He would never deserve her, or her beautiful words.

"Believe me when I say that I had no idea of the consequences that were to follow," he continued. "I had no idea that I..." His breath caught. "I had no plan to fall in..." Christine heard his body drop back against the cushions and she squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back tears. "If I had known of the things you would be made to face then—"

"Then what?" she demanded fickly. "Things would have been different? Please do not talk of what could have been. We are here now, so why dwell on the unchangeable past?"

"But is that not the life that you crave?" he asked. "A life full of light? A life where you are free from the eyes of the devil? You still yearn for freedom, Christine, I know it, I _know_ it! And yet what can I do? Tangible freedom is all I can offer, but that would not be enough. I cannot give you what you truly desire, but I want to, Christine, I do. I want to see you happy—"

"Why is it that you wish to torment me still?" she asked wearily, shaking her head. "Has it not become clear to you that I have made my choice and have stuck by it for many a month now? If you continue with your plights of disloyalty you will push me away, Erik. Do you want that? Do you? I _am_ loyal to you, no matter what you may believe. Not once since I wrote that letter have I attempted to seek Raoul out, neither have I tried to escape. I... I find it so... so _difficult_ sometimes to try to comprehend what is going on in that head of yours—and not knowing _scares_ me."

She placed her quivering hands over her ribcage as she watched Erik stand, his fingers flexing at his side. "You would not want to know what is in my head. You know so little of my past, Christine, and it will remain that way. No, do not try to argue," he said as she endeavoured to contradict him. "My word on this is final." With one last look of warning in her direction he strode away leaving her alone.

Taken aback at his sudden departure, Christine shakily stood up from her resting place, her palms flat out against the armrest for support—her legs did not seem to want to carry her weight. There was no other light in the room, save that coming from the smoky fireplace and that was burning away quickly. Soon it would die out, the last few embers collapsing onto the pile of ash below, and she would be left in utter darkness. As Erik was now. But if she could, she would do something about it.

She struggled to get her reluctant feet to move across the floor at first, but they eventually obeyed and took her out of the room and down the long corridor in search of light and in search of _him._

"Erik, where are you?" she called out, hoping that he would answer her swiftly, but when she reached the end of the corridor there was still no sign of him. "Erik?" Suddenly, she saw something move out of the corner of her eye and she spun around to face it, but was met with nothing other than her own shadow and a languid sob echoing through the air. A slight scrape soon followed and she knew then where he was.

Miserably slumped up against the steps leading up to the lake side door, Erik clung to the sharp stones despairingly. He supported himself on one arm while the other stretched above his head. He seemed to be muttering something under his breath but Christine could not hear him properly. Small jolts ran up and down his back as she edged nearer. He was crying.

"Erik," she begged softly. "Do not do this to yourself." His head began to shake from side to side. "No, listen to me. Stop this. Please stop this. You are not helping yourself."

He said nothing but instead pressed himself closer to the steps and tightened his fingers around the stone, his hands trembling as he did so. She winced, fearing the uneven base may cut into his flesh, and her lip began to tremble as she knelt down, her hands aflutter around his body.

A few more words flowed from his mouth and Christine carefully raised a hand up to trace his shuddering shoulders. "What was that, Erik?" she asked steadily. "What did you say?"

After one last heavy sob, she saw his body contract then greatly relax into itself. But even then he still did not turn towards her. "The world is a cruel place," he whispered. "I would not have you destroyed by it, not like I was. It is brutal. _Vicious_. It is still there waiting for me. I know it."

As she tentatively reached around his back to place her palms on his chest, she felt his heart pounding chaotically. She shuffled closer, sitting on the steps beside him and laying her head onto his back as she closed her eyes. At first, she felt his body tense at her touch, but it was thereafter soothed by her secure arms around his frame.

"Oh, Christine." He breathed her name in a sombre sigh as he shifted to cradle her hands to his heart. "How I love you."


	15. Chapter 15

The following night, Christine heard the siren.

She was advised to remain in her room and away from any impending danger that may follow. The crazed, frantic, blaze alight in Erik's eyes was enough for her to obey his command without a second thought, yet curiosity always managed to sway her judgement, and soon she was skulking through the corridors, silently surveying her surroundings for any dangers.

With one foot in front of the other, she continued to walk blindly through the incessant darkness. Her palms were flat out as sweat began to gather on her skin, making her hands stick to the peeling walls, rather than glide across them.

Living with a ghost, one could say that she had picked up certain habits. Though she was able to remain unseen at the best of times, that did not mean that she had the temperance to match. Lacking precision and stealth, she found it difficult to master the navigation of the darkened passageways by herself and especially when her heart was beating so quickly that she was able to hear it in the awful silence which followed her.

Her eyes slammed shut as she pressed herself securely against the cold surface behind her. What would she do if she walked but a little farther and happened upon a body? She could not live here knowing that innocent blood had been spilt within these walls.

That thought, however, was quickly dispelled from her mind. Erik wanted a redeemer—he _needed_ one. To him, she was his saviour, his guiding light, and she would do all that was in her power to maintain that image, to keep him from doing wrong.

A sudden cry pulled her from her musings and her soft footing commenced again, much more hesitantly than before. As she advanced, the muffled noise which had startled her grew and began to shape itself into two voices, each one gruff and low and enraged. Everything about this situation forbade her from intervening, but feeling as though she could not just stand back any longer, she strode ahead, wary of the voices becoming louder and more aggressive. But it was not until she heard a faint thump that she gathered her dress skirt into her hands and quickened her pace, speedily rounding a corner and freezing at the sight that greeted her.

In a desperate struggle against one another, two figures danced to a violent rhythm as syncopated beats and hits ran through the otherwise silent room. They evaded, stalked, weaved and grunted as blows were landed and dodged. Though both kept their balance, there were times when one body would stray too close to an open flame, teasing the small candles or extinguishing them completely—smoke would then float through the air like a descending fog and shroud them even more in a raging haze.

For a long while, the two figures were indistinguishable to Christine, who only saw them as brawling shadows, but then she saw it—the unmistakable flash of white which parted though the smoke, and a pair of pale hands materialising to fiercely drag the other man back into the darkness. A need to intervene, to stop this madness from continuing overcame her, but her feet would not move from her rooted spot, nor would her voice rise above a stifled squeak.

And then, without warning, the two men appeared out of the black vacuum again, and Christine watched rigidly as one was slammed hard up against a wall. The skeletal white hand which was wrapped around the other man's neck, holding him in place, was painfully visible and almost translucent—the hand of a ghost. The victim clawed at the fingers which held him, his efforts weakening with each haggard breath, but it was when his eyes flashed to Christine that he stilled his movements. A second passed and he was falling to the floor, coughing and wheezing, as the bony hand which had both held and released him still hung frozen in the air.

When the opposing figure, with his curling fingers, finally lowered them to his side, his attention did not turn to the noisy victim lying at his feet. No, all he was focused on was their mute intruder, the one person he had wanted to shield from all of this. "Why Christine, what a surprise. I thought you were in your room, my dear."

Erik's words only barely registered in her mind for her focus was centred elsewhere, on a far more pressing matter. Not even giving her dark companion a second glance, Christine ran to the poor man at his feet, wringing her hands in worry as she tried to determine his welfare despite his hunched posture. Mere moments passed before the room was filled with light and, upon looking up, Christine breathed a sigh of relief when Erik was nowhere to be seen.

"Monsieur?" she said, turning back to the man on his knees. "Are you all right? Are you in need of anything? Should I..." Her words tapered off as his face was revealed to her. "Monsieur Khan!" she exclaimed, leaning back. "Heavens, are you all right? What are you doing down here? Why on earth did Erik attack you?"

Before he could say a single word, however, he had erupted into another coughing fit. His body lurched and his hand went instinctively to rest upon his constricted throat, rubbing it, not quite believing that his airways were free of that frightening grip.

"Water," Christine murmured, finally coming to her senses. "You must have water. Stay still and try not to speak. I shall be back as soon as I can," she said quietly before fetching the much needed beverage.

She was loathe to leave him alone for more time than necessary, considering his current condition and the unknown whereabouts of his attacker. Though hesitant and unwilling to face his wrath, a small part of Christine wished that Erik would show himself so that she could speak her mind.

When she returned, she hurried over, careful not to spill the cold liquid, and handed the glass over with a less than steady hand.

While Nadir drank, lapping up the water like a parched animal, Christine wearily watched him, sympathy and rage building gradually within her. Once the glass had been set down, she bent and slowly wrapped her hands around his upper arms. "Here," she said softly, "allow me help you over to the settee."

The kind glint in his eyes reinforced his unspoken gratitude as he hobbled forward. With her arms supporting him, she allowed her eyes to drop dangerously to the purple brand which was beginning to appear across his neck, an unpleasantness stirring within her stomach at the sight of it.

"Monsieur Khan," she spoke carefully, for though she saw no one but the man in front of her, she was aware of a pair of black eyes pressing against her back. "Shall I fetch you some more water?" When he did nothing but shake his head and position himself on the settee, she continued, "I am sorry, so terribly sorry. This seems to be becoming a regular occurrence and I cannot apologise enough—I know _he_ will not, after all." A sigh escaped her mouth as she wearily pushed her hair out of her face. "I do not understand why he has done this. He has been so good as of late! You must believe me, Monsieur Khan."

Rubbing his neck and swallowing thickly, Nadir listened to her rambles, but when he raised his head to speak, the tightness returned to his throat and his body convulsed with more coughs. He was once again grateful when a small hand came to rub and pat his shuddering back in soothing motions, easing his tremors slowly.

"Are you sure you do not want any more—"

He extended an arm towards her, shaking his hand repeatedly. "No," he eventually rasped. "Thank you."

At the sound of his voice, scratchy and hoarse, Christine winced, dropped her hand to her side and dared to ask the question she was most dreading. "Why were you attacked?"

"When you have kn-known Erik for as long as I have, you find yourself th-thrown into the same situations now and again."

Her hand flew to her neck in disgust, as if she could feel the burn within her own throat and _his_ brand upon her skin. "You mean to say that _this_ has happened before?"

"Well, n-no, but—" His poor attempts at explaining left him with a bitter after taste as he saw tears shimmering in those soft brown eyes. "Christine, I am sorry. You should not have be-been witness to th-that."

"But I _was_ ," she said, exasperated. Oh, how she wished that she was not looked down upon as meek and gentile. How she wished that her sex was not belittled by the men who only wished to hold a veil over their eyes, to shield them from the violent happenings in the world. As if she was unaware of such things! She did not understand why everyone sought to hide the truth from her! "Tell me, please," she urged gently.

With a trembling hand, Nadir smoothed down his hair and glanced at the woman sitting beside him. "Well," he began, "You see—"

"The Daroga learned long ago that it is best if he keeps his mouth shut," a menacing voice said from behind them. "Isn't that right?"

Christine looked up and shuddered, not liking the way Erik was now walking towards them—like a hunter approaching its prey, weak and wounded and—no. No! She did _not_ feel weak. She would _not_ feel inferior. She would _not_ back down. She _would_ stand her ground. "Why would you do this, Erik?" she asked, standing up to minimise the nauseating height difference.

Feigned hurt sparkled in his eyes. "Why would I do what? Oh! You are annoyed. Christine is annoyed! What has Erik done to deserve such wrath?"

"Be quiet," she snapped uncharacteristically before thrusting her arm out to the side, indicating the man beside her. "This, Erik. This very much deserves my wrath, don't you think?"

"Ah," he said, keeping his eyes locked with hers. "The Daroga and I had a small argument, 'tis all! Nothing to worry your pretty little head over." His tainted fingers reached for her cheek but she moved her head away at the last second.

"A small argument, you say? Is that how you solve all your arguments, Erik? With violence?"

"Christine—"

"No!" she shouted. "How dare... how _dare_ you attack him, Erik! Is this how you treat your friends?"

"I see no friend. I have no friends," he replied flatly. "I see only an intruder who was met with the hospitality that he deserved.

Huffing, Christine ran her hands over her hair in a calming motion before stealing a glance down at Nadir, who was sitting rigidly on the settee, his eyes burning. "Before we go any further, I think you owe Monsieur Khan an apology."

"Come now," Erik retorted, "don't you think you are overreacting?"

"Overreacting? You think _I_ am the one overre— _Oh_!" she cried, throwing her arms up in frustration. "Erik! You cannot treat people like this! To... To attack him like that, with no justification whatsoever—even _with_ justification, it is wrong, but to see how you—"

"I am afraid to disappoint you, Christine," he interrupted, staring down at her breathlessly. "But I do have an excuse for my behaviour."

"A poor one," Nadir interjected, not daring to move from his secure position, knowing that the young woman's presence was a Godsend, that he would not be harmed so long as she remained as a barrier between them. "God damn it, man! Why do you act this way towards me, even after everything I have done for you?"

A deep, animalistic growl emanated from Erik's throat and, with all the stealth of a panther, he began to manoeuvre his way around Christine and towards the perspiring man behind her. He would have pounced effectively and swiftly were it not for the light pressure of a hand against his chest which stopped him in his tracks. The tiniest touch from Christine's little fingers was all it took to render him as still as stone. His anger began to melt away as he tore his eyes away from Nadir's and met hers.

An awful silence then befell them and all three shared in its terribleness. Taking advantage of Erik's sense to finally keep a hold on his tongue and, more importantly, his temper, Christine slowly reached out with both hands to encase one of his quivering fists. Startled by her gesture, yet unafraid of it, his eyes softened, his head tilting in sorrow as she began shaking her own. "Why must you make it so difficult for everyone?" she whispered as she leaned closer to him, hoping it was enough to calm him, that her touch, with its quiet power, was able to take away some of his rage. "Why must you make it so hard for me? Why must you make it so hard for me to... to..."

"To what?" he murmured, his mask nudging the top of her head curiously as the man on the settee now sat forgotten to both of them.

 _For me to..._

The unspoken words stayed within her mind, as if trapped within a labyrinth of her own devising, a dark conglomerate of denied truths and secret longings. And they terrified her.

"I am so confused," she uttered finally. "Sometimes I did not know what to think, and when I do, it only confuses me more." She turned her face timidly towards his, speaking quietly into his ear. "It does not make any sense, and I want to understand, Erik, I do, but you will have to help me."

"My mind is a muddled thing," he murmured so quietly that Christine had to lean in even closer to hear him and, as he spoke, she could feel his fist slowly start to loosen and unfurl, his fingers becoming limp and pliable in her hands. "Why would you want to understand?"

His silence only watered her determination, encouraging it to bloom. "Trust, Erik. _Trust_." It was all she could say right now, but it was enough. "Tell me what happened."

She could feel the light shake of his head as his hand slipped from hers. "Christine will be angry with her Erik. He does not want that. No, he does not want that."

"I will not be angry," she told him, though she knew it was a lie. "I only wish to know."

"The Daroga," he eventually said, stepping away from both of them but keeping his focus on his beloved. "He has brought something for you."

"He has?" she asked, bewildered. "What is it?"

"I do not know," Erik suddenly muttered, his eyes pinning the other man to his seat with their intensity. "He would not tell me."

After glancing back and forth between the two men, Christine bravely put herself between them again, standing directly in front of Nadir, her back absorbing Erik's glare.

"What have you brought me, Monsieur Khan?" she asked him politely, making sure her body shielded him completely. Yes, she, too, knew her presence was valuable.

"A letter," he rasped uneasily.

"From whom?" she inquired, already wary of the answer.

"No, he would not say, would he?" Erik snapped from behind them when no answer was given. "You are all conspiring against Erik!"

"No one is conspiring against you," Christine groaned, speaking to him from over her shoulder before Nadir could most likely call him a name he would regret. "May I see the letter?" she asked, turning her attention back to the Persian and stretching her arm out slightly in front of her.

Nadir peered down at her hand and sighed, as if weighing the consequences of his decision. Finally, he slowly reached into the deep folds of his jacket and pulled out a crumpled envelope. Gently, Christine took it and thanked him for his cooperation.

Eager to return home as soon as possible, Nadir flexed his fingers and stood, suddenly craving his armchair by the hearth. "I th-think it would be best if I were to t-take my leave n-now."

"Please do," Erik snarled curtly.

"Are you certain?" Christine said, stepping back to allow him his own space. "Would you not stay and rest awhile? You have been through a lot." She felt guilty allowing him to go without being properly seen to; she would never make a good hostess.

"N-no," he replied, rubbing his neck, easing a short cough out. "I have overstayed my welcome."

"Allow me to walk you to the door, then," Christine offered. It was the least she could do.

"Thank you," he replied, grateful for her protection.

As they stood on the steps leading up to the door, Christine smiled apologetically at him and shuffled her feet, knowing that she would have to speak for Erik again. "I am sure he did not mean it," she told him pathetically. "And I know that you must not believe me, but he has not done anything like this—"

"I know."

"What?" She certainly had not been expecting an agreement.

Swallowing thickly down his bruised throat, Nadir turned to where Erik skulked, noticing how he kept his eyes to the ground, brooding, waiting. "There's a ch-change in him. I can see it. It is you," he said, turning back to look at the young woman in wonder. "You are the cause."

"Perhaps someone should tell him that." Christine's sigh echoed around the silent room. "I only wish that he could see it himself."

"In time..." Nadir's words trailed off and he shook his head, knowing too well not to assume anything with Erik.

"Why do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"You tolerate his behaviour as if it were... normal," she whispered, leaning closer to him.

"Ah," Nadir sighed, pressing one hand against the door handle behind him, needing to feel the security of the cold latch that would soon give him his freedom. "I do not justify his actions, but if you knew his past—the horrors he has seen—then perhaps you would understand. I care—about what he is capable of, and, I suppose in a strange way, I care for him. I would n-not concern myself with him after all these years if I didn't." He then raised one hand and tapped the envelope still clutched within her hands. "Be wary of that, Mademoiselle. It will perhaps bring more ha-harm than good."

Christine did not have time to figure out his meaning for he left immediately after uttering a short farewell.

Descending the steps slowly, she gripped the envelope tighter and made her way over to Erik. "Why would you strangle Nadir, your _friend_ , over a silly letter?" she asked him, perplexed.

"You do not know of its contents, Christine."

"Neither do you!" she cried, restraining herself from hurling the letter towards him.

"You are angry," he grumbled, and though his shoulders held no tension, she could see his hands beginning to curl up into tight balls again.

"No, I am not."

"Yes, you are!" he shouted. "You lied! You promised you would not be angry with Erik."

"And so I am not," she said wearily, her patience wearing thin but not completely deserting her. "However," she continued, "I do not see how you could react this way over something so trivial as a letter." She sighed again, remembering Nadir's explanation before making her way past him. "Allow me to read this alone and in peace. If you cannot admit that what you did was wrong then at least give me this moment to myself. Perhaps you, too, could benefit from a moment's reflection."

Without another word or a look back in his direction, Christine walked away.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: So the site's been fixed now, which is great! Some of you may have missed out on the previous chapter though, which was posted a few days ago, so if you haven't read it already make sure you go back so you're up to date.**

 **And now for the letter...**

* * *

Her heart would not cease its hammering in her ears as she entered the library, and it was only after she crossed the threshold that she began to soothe her haggard breathing. The door remained open in her wake as she traipsed over to the mantle piece, the fire welcoming her presence with a warm hug of radiance that she greedily soaked up.

Though fighting against a tremble which sought to control her nerves, her dainty fingers worked quickly to open the envelope, and as she laid her eyes on the all too familiar handwriting, she felt her heart sink in apprehension.

 _My Little Lotte_ ,

 _I have suffered every day since our forced parting. It pains me so that I cannot see you, though I cannot accept the fate that you have foolishly brought upon yourself. But know that I have not given up hope, I will never give up on you, and I_ _will_ _come for you._

 _These past months have been utter torment for me. I cannot apologise enough for not coming for you. There have been some complications that I had to see to, namely the tracking down of The Persian, a one 'Nadir Khan'. I spoke to him some months back and requested that he contact you, to see how you were. Do you remember his visit, Christine?_

 _He is a strange man. A man who does not like to stay in one place for long, it would seem. After informing me of his visit to you, I did not see him again for some time. I knew I would need his assistance if I were to come for you, but luck has not been on my side. He disappeared and it was troublesome trying to find him. I fear that if I had not run into him one late night I would have... well, I am not certain of that._

 _Safety precautions urged me to not reveal the nature of this letter to Khan, who I can trust only as the carrier for now. Sometimes I doubt his loyalties and wonder which party he serves, mine or_ _his_ _._

 _However, I write to tell you that I have a plan to free you. If, by any chance, this letter does not reach you, then I know that I have failed. But, if you are reading this then I implore you to give a message to Khan next you see him. I will take it from there..._

 _I love you, Christine. I want you to know that. I have thought it every day since last we saw each other._

 _Time has not withered my heart, nor its devotion for you._

 _Yours lovingly,_

 _Raoul_

As she blinked, a stray tear dripped from her jaw and landed harshly at the bottom of the page. The ink ran quickly, making her dear friend's name bleed away until it was nothing but a smudge. "No, no, no," she whispered brokenly, her head shaking heavily from side to side as one of her hands shot out to grab the mantle piece. But even the strongest structure could not support her now. "Raoul... My dear... What are you thinking?"

What _was_ he thinking? Although Christine had made her intentions to remain with Erik clear, she had not often dwelt on the possibility that Raoul would not believe her words. How could she have been so ignorant?

Her hand slipped from the hearth and, with an anguished cry, her legs began to quiver under her weight. She sank to the floor in a sobbing heap, clutching the letter fiercely to her chest.

She did not wish Raoul to be harmed under any circumstances, but how was she to reply to this letter without a complication? Or... perhaps it was better if she did not write back. The thought ran through her convoluted mind. Yes, perhaps she should simply ignore him, make him think that he had indeed failed her. It was cruelty in its kindest form, and she would do anything to protect him, to protect Erik.

She would do anything to protect all of them.

Suddenly, Christine scrunched the letter up and enveloped it with her fingers, pressing the edges roughly into her skin, not caring about the unpleasantness it caused. It was only a silly little piece of paper, and yet if felt as though it was dragging her downwards, down to the floor and further still, until she reached the fiery gates of Hell that she was surely destined for. And was that not what she deserved for her actions, for the grief she had caused? In her current distress, it seemed only fitting.

Her head lolled forward, her neck swiftly becoming stiff from its position, as she balled up her hands into shaking fists and pressed them viciously into the floor. They alone could not very well hold her weakening body, but somehow, she was grateful for the pain if brought her.

"Do not cry," a disembodied voice beside her ear soon whispered, its tone lulling and hypnotic and she was almost tempted to obey its soft plea. Almost. "I do not like it when you cry."

When Christine turned towards him, she could not stop her face from trembling, her body shuddering under a violent wave as he came to kneel beside her. Unsure on how to comfort her, Erik's hands reached out to cup the air around her cheeks, his fingers stroking, searching, but never touching. She followed his movements and his hesitancy merely made her release another hideous cry. She longed for him to be bold, to initiate some sort of contact with her, to reach out and embrace her and hold her in his arms...

But he did not hold her.

" _Please_."

He had never truly held her.

"What is it?" he asked, dropping his hands to let them hang between his bent legs.

"Let me in," she cried, staring at the contrast between his translucent skin and his black trousers—how sickly his fingers looked as they just lay there, unmoving, but how much she wanted them to touch her. She could have captured them in one easy movement, pulling them to her face or into her palms, but she stayed still, as still as Erik and as still as stone. "Won't you _let me in_?"

He pressed his mouth into a firm line as he stared at her curiously. "How many times are we to have this conversation?" he murmured, jaded by her persistence. "My reasons are my own. Why can you not accept that?"

Her bitter tears rolled down her cheeks as she raised her head, her mouth gaping, opening and then closing like a fish out of water. "Because I... I..."

"What?" he asked despondently.

"I... I do not know!" she exclaimed, closing her eyes before raising one closed fist to her forehead, cradling it tightly in a need to inflict pain on herself again.

For a single moment, she empathised with Erik—never being able to express himself in a calm and collected way, never quite finding the right word to fit his ever changing emotions... That was, until she felt him convulsively tugging at her wrist and she was left painfully in her own shoes again, all too aware of his icy fingers prying hers apart.

The letter! Her eyes flew open.

Not a sound was heard in the following minute besides the crackle of the fire, which soon melted with the soft sound of paper crinkling, unfurling and smoothing out...

"It would appear your young man is quite persistent," he said, his voice above no more than a whisper, but there was an eerie harshness to his tone which made her hair stand on end. "Erik knew he was right to suspect, he _knew_..."

"Erik, I am so sorry," she cried hopelessly. "I tried to tell him—you know this! He would not listen to me! Please don't... don't hurt—"

As quick as a flash, his hand flew out and grabbed her forearm, his tight grip forcing both of them up onto their knees. With his other hand, he violently shoved the letter right under her nose as his eyes burned with dark jealousy and betrayal.

"How many?" he snarled, curling his fingers into the paper. "How many letters have you sent him in secret, you scheming temptress? How many letters have you written declaring your love for one another? _How many_ , _Christine_?"

"Erik, you don't understand!"

"Tell me!"

" _Let me explain_!" Her pained pleas ceased to be as she watched him suddenly throw the letter into the fire, the flames engulfing the lost words. She stared at the paper as it curled into itself before looking back at Erik, who was still glaring at her.

"Explain, then," he growled with cold indifference. "I would so like to hear what you have to say for yourself."

Reeling, Christine leaned her head away from him, her features aglow with undisguised disgust. "Do you think that I have something to do with this, Erik? Is that really what you think, that I would plot against you?"

"Erik does not know what you would do," he spat. "He only knows that you despise him."

Ignoring the pain in his eyes, she instead surprised him as her free hand lunged forward to cling to his forearm, fingers wrapping around the thin limb with a grip that matched his own. "I do not despise you," she said, impassioned. "And I have only sent one letter to Raoul—you know this, you know this! There have been no more letters! I would not betray you, Erik. Why can you not trust me? Why can we not live our lives peacefully without all this... all this _conflict_?"

Steadily, Erik's posture became slacker until he all but slumped forward and his hands clumsily slid up slender arms to lightly hold her shoulders. As he brought his masked forehead down to rest upon hers, Christine's hands slowly moved to awkwardly hold his arms.

"You are such a good girl!" he exclaimed. "Such a good girl to your poor Erik. He treats you badly and yet you remain with him. He does not understand."

With his head now nestling into the crevice of her shoulder, he gave himself over to his frustration and to her care. How horrible he was to her, he wondered drearily, but, oh, how wonderful her hands felt! Firm, yet tender against his elbows. But it was not until one of her hands—her marvellously kind hands!—found its way to his miserable excuse for hair that he began to weep. And he shuddered beneath her touch. Her _beautiful_ touch.

"Hush," she whispered against him, along with many other phrases and reassurances which she hoped would be a comfort to him.

But Erik did not hear her words. No, his mind had driven him into his own sombre thoughts, where the woman he loved lay buried, oppressed—a captive of darkness, _his_ darkness. He had been a fool to think that she could have survived in his world without light, without... what had she said to him many months ago? _'"_ _I need my freedom_ _,_ _Erik_ _..._ _I need to feel as though I can be myself_ _...'"_ _—_ Yes, that was it. Freedom. She needed freedom.

He had once thought that he had been able to give her what she wanted, that he had been able to quench her thirst for sunlight and for the world above. But it had not been enough. It would never be enough. Like a songbird, she lived in a gilded cage. Her freedom was a farce, a sadistic illusion that he had created in her honour, believing that she could learn to live behind bars. And he, too, had believed it as he had lived behind these bars his entire life. But not anymore. The glass in front of his eyes had shattered. The illusion was gone, and in its place stood what was always there: two captives, two lost souls... two victims.

"Perhaps that is why the songbird does not sing as sweetly as it once did," he murmured, stopping Christine mid-sentence. "It needs its freedom. Yes, it needs to spread its wings and fly. Fly and be free. Oh, it is too late for Erik, but Christine... Christine may yet have her wings back."

Her hands dropped to her sides and she leaned away from him, eyeing him warily. "What are you saying?"

Rising to his feet, he stood to his full height and straightened out his jacket and hair, as if his little episode had never occurred. He appeared so nonchalant that Christine began to wind her fingers around the fabric of her dress in anger. "You have always had your decisions made for you and staying with me was no exception. It is time for you to truly decide."

"Decide? Decide!" She, too, rose to her feet and glared at the man before her in a rage that throbbed through her veins. "My choice was made—"

"Not willingly."

"—and I stick by it!"

He paused at this, staring almost distantly as though he could see right through her. "Christine, I am freeing you of your bargain." His gaze snapped to hers. "You are no longer bound to me. You may leave."

Frigid and speechless, Christine remained rooted to the ground long after he left the room. Her mind was spinning and suddenly the idea of standing did not seem quite so pleasant any more. Trembling, she attempted to make sense of the situation she was now in.

Erik had released her.

She was free.

But she did not feel free.

Despite his surprisingly sound words, she knew what he said was false. She would never be free without his music, without _him_ _._ His hold on her was too strong...

And the soul he held did not want to be free.

"Erik!" she yelled, quickly scampering from the library and through the winding hallways, searching for him in vain. After releasing her skirts in a gesture of her vexation, she turned her head to see his silent figure standing morbidly at the threshold of her bedchamber. She approached him cautiously. In black, with his head bowed, he appeared more like a mourner standing over a grave.

"When do you wish to leave?" he asked her as she climbed the steps behind him.

A sharp pain numbed her heart at the impassivity of his question. "Please do not ask this of me," she whispered into his jacket, reaching for his shoulder, but only grasping empty air as he swiftly wandered into her room and away from her touch.

"Why shouldn't I ask?" he snapped, whirling around to show her his now bare face—the mask which lay at his feet stared at her and she stared right back. "This is what you want, is it not? Your freedom."

Mouth dry and mind in disarray, Christine could do nothing but watch as he paced anxiously about the floor. Silently, her hand crept up to hold the door frame, her fingers squeezing the structure for support when she saw him start to pick up things at random—articles of clothing, trinkets of all sorts, sheets of discarded paper—and throw them onto her bed without a second care. He seemed frantic, yet entirely focused, as if an unseen force held possession over him and was now controlling his long limbs, carrying them to and fro as his arms swept and gathered and deposited and—

"What are you doing?" she murmured quietly, stumbling towards him.

"I am packing for you," he replied coldly in a light, melodic tone.

"But..." She raised her arms and hands helplessly to illustrate her confusion. " _Why_?"

"Why? I shall tell you, my little songbird." Christine took a step back as he sneered. "I am packing because you are leaving me tonight to return to the world above. Is that not wonderful news?"

Turning around, he caught sight of the necklace, his precious gift to her, lying on her vanity. Gliding almost ominously toward it, he reached out with his fingers, lifting it ever so gently into the air and, for a moment, he did nothing but gaze at the twinkling jewels. Christine grew wary of the possibility of him carelessly throwing it onto the pile accumulating on her bed, but managed to breathe a sigh of relief when he merely placed it back down again.

"Oh, _Christine_ ," he breathed, her name a sacred prayer on his lips, like an ancient ritual full of sacrilege, as if he faced being struck down by even daring to whisper the name. And sometimes, as he lay awake whilst she slept in the next room, he thought about his own death—how much easier it would have been for both of them if he were to perish in the night. But perhaps it was just weakness that allowed him to torment himself by staying alive, the thought of seeing her smile or hearing her voice driving his black heart to thrive. "I _want_ you to stay, but can't you see? You cannot."

"Why not?" she asked, quivering as she neared him still.

"Need you ask?" he answered, not noticing the quiet padding of her feet nearing him. "Consider this. What if you had never spent all this time down here? Where would you be now? In the sun, with _him_ , surrounded by servants and the bourgeoisie. You could have been happy! And instead I am condemning you to a life of solitude and forced poverty! So give me one good reason why you should want to stay!"

No words came to mind and she was left gaping at him unintelligibly. "I... I..."

"Tell me why you want to stay!" he screamed at her, but still she remained unable to answer. "Tell me! Why do you not speak! Do you seek to torment me with your silence!" His irritation and doubt continued to brew until, suddenly, he felt a smothering pressure against his shins. It was as if the breath had been knocked out of him for when he peered down, he saw Christine on her knees, her arms having wound themselves around his legs in despair.

"Please stop!" she begged, her cry muffling against stiff fabric as her little hands clutched at him so fiercely that his pliable body fell to the floor to join her on his knees. There, he remained frozen, hands suspended in the air, as her arms moved to tighten around his torso—the feeling of her surrounding him was as intoxicating as it was suffocating. "Stop this, stop this," she repeated over and over again into his shirt. "This is madness!"

"It is only fitting," he choked out, finally finding his voice. His muscles began to tense and he gave a sharp intake of breath as her palms slid up his back to rest on his shoulder blades, pressing him to her. "I am mad, myself, dearest."

As soon as the endearment had left his mouth, however, an uncomfortable pressure started to spread through him—her nails were beginning to dig into his jacket and she stared up at him with wild eyes, her fingers desperately grasping the black material as if she would do anything in her power to stop him from escaping.

" _Dearest_?" she spat with a fury to match that of the Opera Ghost. "After you push me away, after you pack for me, after you decide that I am to leave you tonight, you have the _gall_ to call me _dearest_?" Edging her hands further up his back, she allowed her fingers to lightly curl over the tops of his shoulders as her expression softened into one of pleading. "All my life, I have had decisions made for me, and now... and now, in a way, I know how to speak my own mind. I know how use my voice in a way that will make people listen. You taught me that. You have taught me a great many things... Yet, when I use my voice to speak, _you_ will not listen."

"What do you want, Christine?" he rasped, not able to suffer her terrible vagueness any longer. "I will listen now. I will listen." It would have been so easy, she thought, to let him take her away from this place, to let him take her back to the world above. But the thought of parting with him now was... strangely unbearable, and she was taken aback by the sudden urge to tighten her hold on him when he uttered one tantalising word, " _Stay_."

Closing her eyes, she buried her head into his shirt, feeling the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. " _Yes_ ," she whispered back, the word falling from her lips as naturally as rain from the sky.

This woman never ceased to baffle him and now here they were, kneeling on the hard ground—one could say _intimately—_ but all Erik could think of was _why?_ He had released her— _twice_ _!_ _—_ but her hands now pressed his body to hers as if she were actually afraid to let him go. As if he would ever leave her! The very idea was absurd. But, it did not do anything to calm his untamed thoughts, raging like waves upon the sea through his mind.

From beneath her fingertips, she could feel the tension start to accumulate again before he began to shift against her, almost in unrest, as if he were no longer comfortable being this so close to her. "No, no," she heard him say. "I... I will not care what you decide, I will not care what you decide! Just say what you really mean! Shout at me, curse me! I know you only stay to appease me. I know that it is not what you truly want."

"And how would you know what I want?" she challenged, clutching at him as he attempted to break free of her grip. " _ _I__ did not even know what I wanted! Oh, how can I make you see sense! You shall soon drive me mad if I am not allowed to—No! No, do not run from me. Don't you _dare_ run." And she clung to him with all her might. "Please do not turn from me now. Please see that I do not want to return to the world above. Please see that I only want to stay here, with our music and with _you_ and that I _love_ you and..."

Time seemed to slow as her words innocently slipped out.

Erik stared at her, his mouth falling open but with no sound coming forth. Those words, those beautiful, yet dangerous words, had tumbled so effortlessly from her that surely they must have been a lie. Yes, he thought, a lie, that's what it is, a very lovely lie. The most wonderful lie he had heard in his life.

"You... are lying," he shuddered to say with a nod of his head, wanting to spare himself the humiliation of her jeering, to drag himself away from her arms. But... he could not. Despite every instinct in his body telling him to flee, he stayed still in her embrace, secretly longing to hear that lie again and hating himself for it all the more.

"No," she murmured, her hands slipping from his shoulders as she frowned. "It is not a lie I speak. I... I believe it to be the truth."

Her words were regimented in tone, almost detached, yet as she said them, her heart began to thud.

 _Love_.

"I... I do. I think I love you."

Slowly, she raised her eyes and beheld the man before her, as if for the first time. And she did the only thing that she could think of at that moment—she seized his face and kissed his forehead, his cheeks and finally his cold, still lips.

"Do not send me away," she mumbled into his skin as she tried not to feel as though she were embracing a marble column, and, pausing briefly to look from his eyes to his chin, she pressed her lips hesitantly to his again.

An instance of stillness passed and then she felt the ever hopeful tug of his mouth, shy and timid, moving against her—the beginnings of a surge, like electricity, dangerous and quick and shocking to behold. Heavy sighs and tears were reaped in the heartbeats following the parting of their bashful lips and neither dared to move, each continuing to kneel on the unforgiving ground. When at last the intrepid silence was broken, Christine felt the coolness of his forehead resting on hers before his melodious voice rang through the air.

"Perhaps it is not a lie, after all. That would be too cruel," he whispered into the corner her mouth, their shallow breaths mingling. "But surely this cannot be real. No one has ever... no _woman..._ Oh, I am too happy for this to be real and you have made me so very happy, my love... _Oh_! My love! My love! Dare I even believe? Oh, and I am a happy man! If I died right now in your arms, I would not care. Only, let this not be a dream. I could not bear it if... No... No, this could not be a dream. My dreams are never so... _real_... so _soft_."

"I am here; I am real," she murmured, slowly laying her palms against his cheeks, letting her thumbs run over the marred skin, and then he was crying once more, tears of suppressed joy and bewilderment running down his face.

In the candlelight, his black eyes glistened and Christine could feel her heart swell as he collected her hands and pressed kisses to her palms, her fingers, all the while whispering words of benignity against her skin. Christine closed her eyes as his breath danced against her fingertips before his hands slid up to lightly hold her shoulders. Her own hands found their way to the back of his head, her fingers toying with his hair, as she pressed closer to him, wanting to savour this feeling of release and complete serenity for as long as she could.

And with him in her arms, she felt complete.

When Erik finally pulled back from her warm arms, it was only so that he could slide his hands over her shoulders and up to her face. He swallowed thickly and gazed at her in wonder as he cradled her cheeks. "Do you truly mean what you say?"

"Yes."

"You love me?"

" _Yes._ Yes, I think I do." Laying her hands on his heaving chest, she not only felt the flat hardness of his body, but also the racing of his heart—the heart which now belonged to her—and she realised, with a shaky breath, that it was all she needed. "I love you," she told him in earnest.

His cool fingers twitched against her flushed cheeks, stroking away her nerves with his feather-like touch. "Then I am afraid I have truly driven you mad."

Just as she opened her mouth to object, the most glorious sound reached her ears and she found herself drawing nearer to the source. Under her hands, she felt the hearty bounce of his chest as his dulcet laugh filled her ears and she decided in that moment that it was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. His crooked mouth, his curled up lips; she loved the exoticism of it, and suddenly she wanted to be the sole reason for his smile.

Before she could stop herself, she had leaned forward and captured his mouth, desperate to absorb his happiness and to share in it. She smiled against him before coming to her senses and pulling back, her cheeks growing warm under his touch as she looked to the floor, embarrassed by her own boldness. "Forgive me," she muttered, but as she summoned the courage to glance at him, she was struck by the gentleness in his eyes.

"I will never forgive you for giving me such a beautiful thing," he told her sincerely, his heart skipping a beat at hearing her elicited sigh, drawn out by his touch.

His gaze dropped and his chest tightened as he found that he could no longer ignore the call of her lips. Leaning forward with the utmost care, he brushed his lips against her warm skin, her cheek, her chin, her nose, pausing briefly between each kiss before returning to her sweetness. He breathed her in, feeling her mouth skim across the side of his face and he could not remember a more delirious and wonderful sensation.

Her breath teased his ear and neck as she sighed again, her hands tilting his head so that she could claim his lips once more. To both her shock and delight, he kissed her back with such a reverence that she had never known.

It was subdued rapture, a tidal wave which had engulfed them, crushing them under the weight of their own affection. Starved hands, tender looks, shy blushes—they were mere novices, finding their way together.

Lost within their kiss, Christine said goodbye to her childhood dreams of earth shattering love and knew that, for her, there would be no happily ever after. There would be no handsome, societal husband or cherub faced children running through their grand household.

No, there would be only Erik. And she was glad of it.

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 **A/N: This was a very satisfying moment for me to go over and rewrite. It's probably one of the chapters I enjoyed writing the most. Let me know your thoughts on it!**


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Thank you so much for the response to the previous chapter! I'm glad that you all enjoyed it, and I'm going to try to start replying to reviews personally now so that I can thank you all individually. I'm terrible at replying, but I'm hoping to keep up to date this time.**

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A subtle aroma teased her curious nose as it pulled her from her dreams the next morning. A frown displaced her otherwise peaceful features as she quietly rose and slipped her dressing gown on. Wrapping it closely to her laggard body, she padded across the floor with a surprising amount of elegance for one who had just woken up, and curled her fingers around the door latch.

A bountiful display of sweet fragrances and colour met her at the door, and Christine smiled at the sight she beheld. Roses, fennel, lilies, irises—flowers by the dozen and more were carefully arranged and placed in grand vases all about the room. With merriment in her heart, Christine practically floated through the bouquets, trailing her hands over the smooth petals and bending down briefly to inhale more of those sweet smelling buds before she came to a stop in front of the pianoforte. On the top lay a folded note with her name sprawled across it in a familiarly spindly fashion, and written within was a single sentence: _Fo_ _r you_.

Putting the note back down on the lid, Christine seized a flower from the closest vase and began to idly twist the stem between her hands, bringing the petals up to her face to brush them against her lips. But her fingertips soon replaced their velvety touch as her mind turned to the night before.

After the tears had been shed and their knees could not withstand the weight of their bodies anymore, they had collapsed to the floor, exchanging whispers and glances, demure touches and smiles. The declaration of her love had never left the air and as they breathed together, their foreheads touching, in a state of peace. They spoke to each other through the night until Christine's eyes could not keep from closing.

It was strange, she thought, as she stared at the bud in her hand, to have finally confessed that which she did not know herself. After many months of confusion and deterrence, she had finally been able to give in to the implausible truth that she had fallen in love with the one person with whom she shouldn't have.

It was... a daring love, but a simple one and, for the life of her, she could not explain why she loved him. She only knew that she did.

A sudden, light pressure and a rush of warm air at her ear alerted her to his presence before he spoke.

"It is all for you," he whispered, echoing his written words as he laid his hand on her shoulder.

"Thank you," she said, bringing one of her hands up to cover his, marvelling in the way he now eased into her touch.

Had Erik been an unabashed man, he would have turned his little love around and held her with all that was within him. He would have kissed her hands a thousand times and exclaimed that _he_ should be the one thanking _her_. His darling girl had given him the greatest gift he could have asked for: her heart, willing and steadfast. It was the most precious thing he had ever received and he vowed, with all his being, that he would keep it safe, that he would guard her love.

And had Erik been born a normal man, he would not have hesitated to slip his hand out from underneath hers and to let it guide her head towards him for a chaste kiss. Knowing, however, that she had allowed him the pleasure of touching her shoulder was more than enough for him. As her fingers gently stroked his, he wondered if she would ever know just how much she meant to him.

With her voice and with her lips, he had been saved; and through their tears, he had been reborn. Though she would later rebuke this claim, brushing it off as sacrilege, Erik knew it to be the absolute truth. Christine had saved him. She was his saviour, and he would worship her until the day he died.

o0o

As time came to pass, her affections did not.

Their days together were filled with song and they were content in each other's company. They seldom argued and it was truly as if Christine was living in a dream; she had never seen Erik so happy before! Her hours were consumed by him and he would never pass up an opportunity to teach her new things, to fill her mind with bold facts and theories, to entertain her with endless compositions and tricks. Oh, his tricks! He was quite positively the most intriguing magician she had ever seen and he dared to remain modest after he had astounded her on numerous occasions!

"It is merely an illusion, my love," he would tell her, though she would always shake her head and insist that it was sorcery. Her eagerness and sheer willingness to believe never ceased to amuse and trouble him.

And when he called to her, she never failed to answer. It was what scared her the most and she wondered if she would ever be able to refuse his beckoning.

Whatever she may have been doing was dropped the instant her ears were enlightened by a doleful stringed melody. With his rich music drowning her senses like a powerful sedative, she would rise, as if in a trance, and float towards him like a moth to a flame.

This particular evening was no exception.

The long trail of her gown almost hovered celestially above the ground as she glided through the shadows, following the sound of his violin.

" _Christine_..."

"Yes?" she asked, holding her arms out in front of her in the hopes that she would find him there.

" _Come to me_..."

As her dry lips parted to speak into the empty air once more, another line of musical phrases was played. Christine did not remember her route, nor did she remember actually moving, but soon enough she found herself in _his_ presence.

And there they stood, two mortals in the midst of heavenly music.

Delighting in the fact that such purity was being created at the union, Christine watched the bow intently as it caressed the strings. A joyous warmth washed over her as she finally looked in awe up at the man who held the lock and key to her soul.

" _Closer_ ," the voice whispered, his mellifluous tones lined with an allure that she could not resist.

How odd, she thought; Erik's mouth had not moved when he had spoken just now. But she chose not to linger on such details. In fact, she did not wish to think at all. All she craved that evening was to listen to him.

Walking forward with weak legs, she began to circle him slowly, her trembling hands reaching out to the instrument and to his nimble fingers—oh, to touch them as they worked!

"Your music is beautiful," Christine mumbled after the final notes had been played and he had set the instrument and bow down to one side. Drawing closer to his side, she allowed her hand to brush against his for a moment before she turned her attention towards the violin.

With a smile on his face—how good it was to smile!—he very gently placed his fingers against her jawline to raise her head. "When one has a muse like you, there is no limit as to what can be created."

Slightly disheartened when he pulled his hands away so quickly, she managed to capture them and pull them towards her before he could even speak one word of protest. Peering down, she noticed many ink stains on his palms and she slowly traced the dry textures of his skin, a slight frown on her brow. "You have been composing?" He nodded. "Do you not sleep at night?"

Erik pulled his hands away, folding them carefully behind his back. "I seldom sleep, but there is no need of it! Who could sleep when there are such salient melodies waiting to be written?"

Christine sighed. "You must try to look after yourself more."

"Are you implying that I am careless?" he teased.

"I am simply saying that while you deem sleep unimportant, it isn't healthy to go without it."

He smiled softly at her. "Always the voice of reason," he said affectionately. She searched his eyes and, knowing that he would not listen to her, began to turn away when his hand suddenly reached out and caught hers. "Will you not stay?" he murmured.

Squeezing his hand, she nodded and tilted her head towards the piano. "Won't you play something?"

At her request, he retracted his feathery touch and moved away to slide onto the piano bench. His hands made light work of trivial tunes as he stretched his back and threw a glance in Christine's direction. "What shall it be? Mozart?"

A small smile trembled at the side of her mouth as she followed him to the bench and sat down beside him. "You always play Mozart."

"Yes, but Mozart can be enjoyed by those with a keen ear, not just by the masses. You enjoy his work, do you not?"

"Hmm, but it is not something I wish to hear tonight."

"Ah, I see that I cannot persuade you. Something else, then?" She nodded. "What will satisfy my little love, hmm? Handel? Schubert?"

As her mind scrambled for an answer, Christine closed her eyes and leaned gently into his side, savouring the hypnotic roll of his shoulders as he moved as one with the music. Looking up at him, she smiled shyly, her eyelids heavy, and asked, "Could you perhaps play me one of your own compositions?"

Erik's breath caught as he unfortunately glanced down and saw this woman, this demure, yet beautiful woman looking back at him. For a split second, he wished for her to be able to see the world, to see _herself_ , through his eyes. Perhaps then she would realise just how tightly his chest would constrict when she smiled and a small crease would appear at the corner of her mouth—how he adored it!—or when she would move her eyebrows into the most bizarre shapes when she was confused, or when she would sing and a sparkle would appear in her lovely eyes, or—

"Erik?"

"Hmm? Oh... Yes," he said, thankful that he was able to fumble out a semblance of a reply. "I shall play one of my pieces if that is what you wish."

As Christine straightened, her hands coming to entwine together in her lap, Erik paused with his own hands just above the keys. How could he explain to her how she made him feel? He knew there were not enough words in the world to— _words_... Perhaps he did not need _words_ at all. After all, when had their music ever failed them? Yes, she would be able to understand now, he thought, let music be her guide.

Evocative and rich, the keys cried out under his light touch, drawing Christine ever nearer to them and their tale. And as the piece's movements changed dynamically, allegro fading to andante passages, the phrases he spilled out were deeper in tone, more fierce, and all the more consuming. One of Christine's hands slipped down to clutch onto the edge of the bench as he continued to play, undaunted.

Yes, words would have been too much for her. They would have crushed her, but _music_ , music would not. No, music would only caress—and her _breath,_ coming in short tantalising pants, was the perfect harmony to his phrasing, adding a delicious texture that he found all too tempting.

He fought then against the urge to turn to her, struggling to keep from reaching for her, and instead clenched the muscles in his arms, forcing his fingers to stay on the keys, letting them flirt and tease and coax until the piece had ended.

As he began to shakily lower his hands, they were suddenly encased by something much warmer than the air around them. He watched in frightened awe as Christine daringly brought his hands to her mouth, her tremulous lips hovering over his skin as she stared at him.

"Were you listening? he choked, almost afraid of her answer. "Did you hear it?"

His questions, though simple, seemed to deter her boldness for she pulled back and gazed at him with large, shining eyes. "I did," she whispered, quivering with something bordering to trepidation.

"And you are still here."

"I am."

With a helpless groan, Erik quickly removed his mask and slipped onto his knees in front of her, burying his face into her lap, his now bare skin rubbing against her dress as his hands gripped the edge of the piano bench behind her. Startled by his position, Christine froze and looked at the mask sitting next to her before redirecting her attention to the man at her feet.

"Erik?" she said cautiously. "Are you all right?"

His voice was muffled by her woollen skirts until he lifted his head and cried, "How can you stay after what you just heard?"

Clarity rang in her ears. "You think you frightened me."

"I know I did," he insisted.

Her lip curled as her hands moved around his neck to cradle the back of his head. "I do not frighten so easily anymore. I deserve more credit than you give me."

"But you know now, you _know_ ," he said, alluding to the ardour he had woven into his composition.

"I am not so naïve," she whispered, gently pulling him forward until his body was pressed against hers, his head resting against her stomach. Did he think her ignorant as to not already know of his desires? And was he so ignorant of... her own hidden desires?

His long arms tensed against the bench at her sudden warmth, torn between driving himself closer and pulling away completely. As her fingers came to thread themselves through his thin hair, however, Erik knew that her touch was not meant to be feared, but enjoyed, and he would cherish every little moment that she gave to him. With a sigh, he held her waist, leaning into her embrace, not caring that his legs were starting to ache from kneeling.

When he lifted his head again, he was greeted by the wondrous feeling of her lips pressing a tender kiss to the corner of his mouth, causing him to convulse with another heavy sigh and reach upwards to feel where her mouth had just touched him.

Staring at her in adoration, a sense of courage washed over him and he said, "I wish to give you something, Christine. May I give you something?"

"What is it?" she asked, frowning.

Reaching up to her face, he stroked away the crease on her forehead before curving his finger around the roundness of her cheek. "You must close your eyes first and not open them until I say otherwise," he commanded gently, guiding her hands to her lap where he positioned them with her palms facing upwards. "Close your eyes."

With nothing to settle her curious mind, Christine had no choice but to obey and wait patiently to receive whatever it was Erik spoke of. Seconds later, a light, cool object was placed into her eager palms and though desperate to look down, she sufficed with running her thumbs over it.

The object in question was as small as a thimble. Why, it almost felt like a—

"You may open your eyes now."

Christine merely stared at him, not looking down at all. She knew all too well what it was. With a wave of his hand, Erik picked up the little object and held it between his fore finger and thumb, turning it slowly to make it shine in the candlelight. It was garish, coruscating, and when she did finally look at it, she forgot how to breathe.

The tiny diamonds and sapphires encrusted into the ring of smooth silver captured her unwilling attention before she dragged her gaze up to look at Erik.

"I... I do not know what to say," she told him.

Though she had once promised him her hand, he had released her from the forthcoming marriage. Ever since the night he had told her he would not force her, she had slowly forgotten about her vow. And now? A strange sense of domesticity had already befallen them, but the very idea of having a ring grace her finger once more was unpleasant. There were too many memories attached to the band of silver.

"Beautiful, is it not?" Erik asked.

"Yes, very." She breathed out each word with a shaky smile, not knowing completely whether it was reassuring Erik or herself more. Inhaling deeply, she allowed the stifling air to fill her lungs before replying, "Thank you, Erik. It really is beautiful, but—"

"Oh, no!" he suddenly exclaimed, lunging forward to grab her hand. "No, Christine. I... this... you see..." She frowned and tilted her head to the side. It was not often that she saw Erik making himself redundant in the search for words. "Do not misinterpret my actions, I beg of you. _Hear_ me, please."

She nodded carefully. "I am listening."

He directed both his luring eyes to the ring but kept an icy hand over hers. "I know of your preferred ideas on marriage, particularly a marriage to me, but _you_ also know _mine_. I once told you that I would have you as my own, even if that meant waiting a lifetime, and I still mean it. I will wait for you to make a decision of your own accord. The very... _thought_ of you rejecting me in the pursuit of marriage at this time would be too much for me to bear and so I simply ask you to wear this ring, not out of obligation, not out of old promises, but out of the fact that you have accepted my love." He was not asking for her hand—Christine did not whether to laugh or cry! "Will you? Will you wear it?"

Slowly, she nodded and allowed him to slip the cool band onto her finger. It was much lighter than she had anticipated and, to her surprise, it did not feel as burdened as she thought it would. Perhaps she was over-dramatising his giving of the ring, but, to her, it still held a tremendous amount of significance. She would not wear it out of obligation or old promises, as he had said, but nor would she wear it as a physical form of acceptance. No, she would wear it out of love. No matter what her mind tried to tell her, she would only wear it out of love.

Dipping his head, Erik kissed her finger, where the flesh met the band. "Oh, Christine," he sighed into her skin. "Thank you. Thank you."

Emboldened, he then pressed his hands onto the bench and pushed himself further up onto his knees to capture her mouth with such enthusiasm that it took Christine by surprise. He had never taken such liberties before, and it shocked her as much as it pleased her.

Had it not been for her hands on his cheeks then, pulling him closer, and her soft lips kissing him back with just as much vigour, Erik would have torn himself away from her. But how could he now? Her touch was so gentle, so heavenly, so addictive.

He dragged his trembling hands across her waist and up her back, clinging to her fiercely, unsure of what to do and afraid of overstepping a boundary. But she did not recoil, nor did she protest, she merely smiled against his mouth and shuffled towards him, slipping her shaky hands down to his neck and—shaky? Could she have been as uncertain as he? Yes, yes, there it was: in the quivering of her lower lip and in the pull of her eyebrows—his little love was just as uncertain! Pulling back, he searched her flushed face, drawn to her lips once more as they curled upwards into a small smile.

"You are a wonder," he murmured, a sudden brightness filling his eyes as he kissed her again. "What would you say to an evening stroll, Christine? Would you enjoy that? Would you walk proudly next to your Erik?"

"Do you mean it?" she asked cheerily, her excitement brewing as he nodded in reply. "But at this hour?"

He chuckled wryly as she gazed at him with eyes that shone. "A stroll around the streets of Paris is quite refreshing at the best of times, my love."

In one swift movement he rose to his feet and extended one hand towards her, his fingers unfurling in a tempting gesture. "Shall we?"

Christine could not resist his impulsive behaviour; it was so unlike him. She placed her hand in his as she also stood to her feet, a playful grin running across the length of her face. "We shall."


	18. Chapter 18

Words could not describe the utterly uplifting feeling of the December wind which met Christine's face like hands tickling her skin. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to bask in the night air after having so long been bereft of it.

As Christine took this brief moment to fix any part of her attire that was crooked or disappointing to the eye, she looked around at the abandoned street. She had never seen Paris as quiet nor quite so peacefully bereaved of a crowd as this night. A thick fog covered the hazy gaslights lining the streets and Christine found herself caught up in the romanticism of the sight. Turning her head to the sky, she then stared up into a dark sea of black, harbouring white indentations across its vast length.

Truly she had forgotten how beautiful the evening stars could be.

Expecting it to be cold, Erik had insisted that she wrap up properly before they venture out, so she had agreed, as he was usually right when it came to her health. And so it was natural that he had frowned when they stepped out into the open and found that the environment was unusually primed for anything _but_ a December night. It was strangely warm, not too warm, but warm for a month which normally brought harsh conditions and ice in its wake.

Looking to her left, Christine saw that Erik was politely offering her his arm as he stood waiting in his refined suit and hat which encased his face in shadow. If there was any hesitation in her mind about walking alongside him it was quickly whisked away with the small smile he also offered her. Seldom did she see him smile with such tenderness and an instant later she was accepting his arm with a smile of her own.

As they walked down the empty streets, she felt content on Erik's arm and she could not stop herself from glancing up at him, perhaps to make sure that he was as happy as she. When she next looked up at him, however, she bit her lip as she saw him gazing back down at her. As their eyes locked and he tentatively placed a hand over the one on his arm, Christine studied his obscured expression and saw that his eyes shone with pride. He was proud to have her by his side and, at that moment, Christine was also proud to be beside him. In the moonlight, they were just two more faces—another man and another woman, easily mistaken, inconspicuous... normal.

Christine soon felt a slight pressure on her hand and she looked up at Erik, who was pointing towards a bench. Understanding what he was suggesting, she nodded eagerly and followed him over to it. Another soft breeze blew past her face as they restfully sat down.

After gently lifting her hand from her lap, Erik stared at her, as if searching for approval, before raising the hand to his lips, soothing the covered skin with a kiss. "Do you know how beautiful you are?" he whispered and coyly, she grinned, remaining silently aloof to his comment.

They soon slipped into a comfortable silence, willing enough to enjoy each other's company without the need for trivial words.

The slight pressure of his thumb rubbing against the back of her hand made a pleasant warmth spread throughout her chest. Oh, how wondrous her time spent with him had been! She would never have imagined that he would be able to make her so... happy. So eager to please her and yet so shy in his affections—it made her feel as though she were mature, an expert in the ways of love, when that could not be farther from the truth. Hiding beneath raw emotion was a young girl who still wore her hair in a braid and whose dreams of love were non-existent. As inexperienced as she was, there was no doubt in her mind that Erik was even more so. He sought to hide it from her sometimes, but she could see through him. She could see it in every gesture he made towards her, how he would shy away from her, how he would melt into her touch as if... as if he had never been touched before.

Gaucheness had controlled his movements these past weeks and when he would reach for her, she would brace herself for his trembling. Clumsy and eager and caring were his hands, pawing at her, searching for something they both weren't sure of, as if, through gawky exploration, he would be able to find the answers.

His touch did not repulse her, but it did unnerve her, and yet she would not push him away—that was what frightened her. Many a night she had laid awake thinking of him, oddly captivating, and the thought of his hands on her body made her heart pound. Closing her eyes now, she leaned against his arm, as if reaffirming her point. Yes, she craved his affections as much as his touch and, through this, their strange courtship had slowly become a temptation.

How could she not have seen it before? They lived together, but were not bound by matrimony—could this constitute a sin? Had she been made a sinner through delightful indulgence?

"You are very hard in thought," Erik said suddenly, pulling her from her fearful mind. "What has my little songbird's attention?"

A distinctive warmth radiated across her cheeks as she struggled to answer. "Erik... may I speak plainly?" He nodded, eyeing her curiously. "Do you find anything... wrong with our... living arrangements?"

Underneath the mask, she knew he was frowning. "I do not understand."

"No, I did not think you would," she said, groaning inwardly. "Let me word it another way. Have you ever known a courting pair to live in the same household as one another? And if not, then why do you think that is?"

Fumbling with the lining on his thick coat, he answered, "You are asking the wrong man."

Sighing, she reached over and placed her gloved hand on his sleeve, instantly stilling his fidgeting. "Erik, we are not married."

"Your powers of observation do you credit," he replied dryly.

"What I mean is..." Removing her hand, she pursed her lips and stared at the damp ground. She felt as though she were speaking to a child. "I am attempting to be as delicate as I can," she said, but when she was met by only his stoic stare, she sighed. "We are not married, but we are living together. Do you see nothing wrong with this?"

"Should I?" he questioned, undaunted. "People live together every day. It is a normal occurrence, I am led to believe."

"Yes," she continued slowly, "but we are courting. It is... not... proper."

As the breeze picked up around them, Christine could almost see the cogs in his rusty mind start to creak and move, his jaw then tensing, his eyes suddenly shining with understanding. " _Oh_."

"Do you understand now, Erik?" she asked timidly, her cheeks reddening from something more powerful than the night air.

Nodding quickly, he turned away from her, his gloved hands fisting at his knees. Having become flustered, he fought against the urge to rip his mask off and brace the world, just so that he might rid himself of the unbearable heat now encasing his face.

"I made a promise to stay, I know this, but..." As she lowered her head and fingered the ring through her glove, she sensed Erik's gaze on her. She sighed. "I speak so plainly because I care for you so. Though you deny it, I know this ring means more than what you say. It will mean a promise of marriage—"

"Christine—"

"No," she continued calmly. "Please listen. I will not remove it, but, at the same time, I know I shall feel guilty wearing it, knowing that you want something that I cannot give you right now. Have a little faith; that is all I ask." She smiled at him, but it was short lived. "I will be blunt, then. I... I think it best if I move elsewhere. Oh, I do not wish to move, truly I don't. This world seems different to how it was a year ago, though I know now I must return to it. I must not remain down below with you, not while we are unwed."

Silence prevailed until something deep resonated from the back of Erik's throat, a low rumble which caused Christine to feel a sense of dread as she turned to him. "Move?" he growled, his fingers curling over his knees. " _Move_? You want to stay and yet you want to leave. What a contradictory little creature you are."

"This is the most sensible thing to do," she argued, ignoring his remark. "It will be better for the both of us. Besides, it is not like we will not be able to see one another. We can visit each other, daily, if that is what you wish."

Christine noted the flexing of his fingers, the clenching of his fists. "What Erik wishes and what Erik gets are two very different things." He echoed her sigh and slowly relaxed his hands. "But where shall she stay and how shall my love fend for herself, hmm? How will she cope without Erik to guide her? If she leaves, he will not come crawling to her."

"Oh, Erik," she chided, disliking his manner of speech. "If you are asking about my lodgings, however, then there is always Mamma Valérius—"

"Ah, the surrogate mother," he spat as he turned to her. "But not the boy, my love? Are you certain that this little plan of yours does not concern him? I have not forgotten that letter he sent you."

"Have you so little faith in me?" she snapped back at him before turning away. "I am sorry. I merely feel that this is the right thing to do."

"Christine," he suddenly cried, moving to clutch at her hands with a fierceness she was not anticipating. "I have tried to make every moment of your time with me comfortable, granted I do not always live up to that, but I _try._ Do I not _try?_ Everything you want I give you! I even gave you your freedom— _twice_! _—_ and still you did not flee. I both adore and resent you for that choice but despite of all that has transpired, you have found it in your heart to stay with your Erik. Why then," he whispered, " _why_ can we not live our lives together, as one?"

Fidgeting with the buttons on her gloves, Christine did not dare raise her head as she replied, "Under the eyes of God, I do not wish to live in sin."

Another bout of silence flooded them and, before she could think, he was on his feet before her, offering his arm without even a sparing glance in her direction. "It is late and you are cold. We should return now."

Christine accepted his frigid invitation without a single word uttered and, defeated, they began their monotonous walk home.

How quickly the events of one evening could turn sour, she mused.

They had almost reached the halfway point when she felt that unmistakable delicate pressure of Erik's hand resting on top of hers. "How long would you wish to stay for?"

Christine was almost speechless. "Well, I... had not thought about it."

"Hmm, and how soon were you planning on leaving?"

"I was not _planning_ anything, I only..." Another sigh. "I do not know that either. But does this... does this mean that you—?"

"Yes," he replied grimly. "Though I have a few conditions."

"What are they?" she asked, intrigued but not at all surprised.

"I do not intend, nor do I wish to meet your guardian. So, if you will allow me to, I will come to you under cover of darkness and visit you in secret."

"You do not wish to meet Mamma? Oh, I am certain that she will take kindly to you if you are worried—" She stopped her utterance short when her eyes drank in the disapproving look that showed in every inch of his visible features. "Secret meetings, you say? You make it sound as though we are forbidden lovers in one of my fairy tales. Tell me, Monsieur le Fantôme, where shall these meetings take place if you do not plan on coming through the front door? Will you materialise in the sitting room as we are taking tea?" Her jesting aside, it took her but a few seconds more for her mind to think of another suggestion. "There are glass doors leading out to a small balcony in my bedchamber—Oh, you cannot possibly be suggesting—"

"Cease your womanly fretting, my love. We have lived together for several months now and I have always respected your privacy. I would not do such a thing as to put your honour in a compromising position. But," he continued, squeezing her hand, "it would make for an appropriate rendezvous point." Nodding away her qualms, she asked if he had any more conditions. "Only one. I want you to wait a while longer until you leave, until the new year has come."

"Why then?"

"Please do not question my reasoning. It is an amazement that I even agreed to this in the first place. Do not make me change my mind, Christine." Though his words may have suggested otherwise, his tone betrayed his slightly playful intent.

It was only a few short weeks until the new year; Christine saw no reason to argue if he had agreed. "Very well, then. I shall write to Mamma tomorrow."

o0o

As they entered the passageways leading to their underground confinement, Erik felt as though he would sprout wings at any moment, as though he would be able to fly home to his nest and burrow into the comfort that was the darkness. Home—and what else could he have called this decrepit ruin?—was where he wished to be. He could not say the same for Christine, however. Observing her as she removed her outdoor wear, he noticed her cheery disposition. Had she always been this cheerful, or was the knowledge that she would soon be leaving this place lightening her spirits? He did not want to search his memories for the answer.

As she passed him and collapsed onto the settee, Erik sought to maintain control and went about relighting the candles mounted high on the walls. His movements were slow, almost solemn, while he created the flames with a flick of his hand, seeming almost ritualistic in nature.

So focused on the measly task was he, that he did not notice the sudden change which came over Christine as rapidly as waves creeping up upon the shore. He merely continued to work his way around the edge of the room slowly, relighting and moving on and repeating until a soft grunt echoed from behind him. Turning, he saw his beloved lying across the settee, her arm across her forehead.

In an instant, he was by her side. "What is the matter?" She moaned in reply and repositioned herself so that she was facing the back of the settee, her arm now curving round her body to slump over her waist. "Christine, I cannot help you if you do not tell me what is wrong." Moments flew by without an intelligible answer and, fearing he would go mad, he leaned down and pressed the backs of his fingers against her forehead. "Christine," he sighed to himself. "Do you feel ill? You do not feel any warmer than usual. You could not possibly have been out long enough to catch anything!"

"Erik?"

"Ah, she speaks!" he exclaimed, leaning down further to inspect her as a doctor would a patient.

"Wait," she whispered sluggishly, trying to communicate to him in so few words what is was that she wanted. "Do not move..."

"I do not understand, Christine," he spoke cautiously. "I am not going anywhere."

At that point, he started to remove his hand from her head and she groaned in distress, catching it before it had retreated too far back. " _Don't_."

"What are you doing?" he inquired directly.

Christine sighed and weakly pulled his arm closer so that it was now draped around her frail body. He was so stunned that he simply fell onto the settee next to her, his arm hanging limply within her weak grip, trusting her enough to touch him, to move his arm without causing him harm. Watching her shift slightly, he sat rigidly as she pressed his hand to her cheek and as she leaned into it he felt her smile slightly against his palm.

"Christine?"

"Just... let me, please," she begged quietly, kissing his fingers and swiftly wiping away a stray tear away before it could land on his skin. "Please."

Her incoherent words turned to silence but she pressed his hand closer to her skin—if that was even possible—and with her other hand she tried to embrace his arm. Awkwardly, yet graciously, Erik turned and shuffled behind her so that he sat with his back against the armrest. Carefully, as if she were made of no more than glass, he lifted her body up so it could rest against his.

After a while, her breathing slowed and she fell into a restful slumber. Erik's heart was practically thrumming against his chest, but he did not dare move her, not while she slept in his arms so peacefully. And he hoped—oh, how his miserable heart hoped!—that he would again be able to hold her in his arms as she slept.

But right now it was not meant to be. She was adamant on their separation and it pained him to even think on it. Though he had agreed, inside he was bitter, resentful even. And sad, oh-so sad. Why would she give him such joy and then seek to tear it from him so soon? His beloved was not a cruel mistress, but neither was she a free one. No, she had always been a gregarious little dear and he had selfishly wanted to keep her for himself. What a fool he had been, to think that he could have such happiness. Had it merely been an illusion? Had his wasted mind finally lost its remnants of sanity and allowed him to believe what he wanted to believe? No, it could not have been a lie. She was here, she was real... But he knew he could not be around her at this moment in time, not while a fury began to build within him.

He would put her to bed and then he would seek to quench the storm inside of him elsewhere.

He would pay the world above another visit before this night was up.


	19. Chapter 19

Looking back now, Christine could not remember how much sleep she had had before she was awoken by anguished cries.

Flying out of bed, she creaked her door open and carefully parted the curtains which covered it. Though it was dark, she did not have reason to believe that anyone was out there, and yet she could still hear those terrible moans. With one hand she bundled her trailing dressing gown and brought it round to the front of her body, hugging it close to her skin as if it would somehow protect her from harm, while she used her other hand to steady herself on the wall as she walked. Her breathing hitched, becoming loud and raspy, and it was not long before she started to rely on its shaky, but reliable rhythm as a means of comfort. As she ventured through the corridors, she counted her breaths, counted her steps, counted anything that would distract her from the sounds she was hearing.

As she crept towards the kitchen, a crash suddenly echoed through the halls behind her, causing her to yelp and press herself against the wall. Looking warily back in the direction that the sound had come from, but keeping her body flat against the rigid structure, she began to edge her way closer to the commotion.

"Erik?" she whispered as she rounded a corner, knowing very well that no one would have heard her pathetic utterance. She swallowed hard, only just realising that her throat was tight and dry from panting. "Is that... Is that you?"

As the words left her mouth, however, a shadow of a doubt entered her already troubled head. What if this fortress was no longer impenetrable? Were they no longer safe? Had someone braved the endless labyrinth of traps and deceptions? An unpleasant feeling sat at the pit of her stomach as she thought on this. She tried to tell herself that she was being ridiculous and yet the smallest of uncertainties continued to hover at the back of her mind, whispering that she was right, that someone had discovered them.

But if that were the case, then whose cries was she hearing?

Quickening her pace, she continued down another corridor but nearly stopped in her tracks as the candelabra on the wall shone down on a small object ahead of her. A small reflective object. As she came closer, more and more of these pieces appeared and her eyes widened as she realised that she was looking at the broken remains of a mirror. The frame lay on the ground and scattered around it were thousands of glass shards, some tiny, some large. As she tiptoed through the little broken fragments, she glanced down briefly to see her distorted image reflected back at her. Christine swallowed thickly and continued to make her way forward.

And that was when she laid eyes on him.

Her sigh of relief came almost as a gasp when she saw Erik, and only Erik, standing in the music room. If there had been no intruder, then she only could assume that he had been having one of his episodes, thus accounting for the mirror. She leaned against the opened door, not only to steady her uneasy heart but to also take a moment to study his peculiarly quiet demeanour. She did worry about him terribly sometimes. His episodes always left him extremely vulnerable, though he was never one to admit it to himself.

After a few more moments, she frowned. Why had he not acknowledged her presence? The candles surrounding them flickered wildly as she began to move closer and was now able to take in his appearance properly.

As he leant against the lid of the pianoforte, she could see that Erik was holding himself stiffly _—_ his back was tensed and his head was bowed. His arms were like steel rods, fixed and taut, while his hands, though supportive of his heavy body, were clenched into tight fists. Taking another step closer, Christine then noticed a few frightful details she had not the eye to see until now.

Usually the picture of immaculate presentation, Erik was now adorned only his black trousers and white shirt, the latter of which was untucked and torn very slightly. The candles beside him seemed to twitch at the sight of his jacket and waistcoat, which sat as rigidly as the rest of him in a pile on the piano lid.

Christine was about to voice her concerns when her foot came into contact with a hard object. She peered down to see his white mask on the floor. Bending down, she scooped it up into her hands and stared at it. Erik was never usually this careless, but... But what in the world was that under her fingertips? Christine squinted in the dull light and brought the mask nearer to her face. There was something on the surface.

She was not able to make out what it was and so she shifted on the spot, allowing a little more light to shine her way. She lifted her hand and inquisitively touched the queer substance again with a single finger, smudging it and then, only then, did she realise what it was.

The mask fell from her hands.

" _Blood_ ," she whispered.

"Ah," Erik said, his mellifluous tones striking fear into her heart. This was not the voice of the man she loved. This was the voice of the Opera Ghost, cold and emotionless in his desultory manner. "I did not mean to wake you. You need your rest, my love. Return to your bed."

" _Blood_... There is _blood_ on your mask," she repeated, realising that it now coated her fingers. " _Why_? _How_?"

"It is nothing to worry your pretty little head over," he crooned, his spun words almost making her believe and obey him. "Go back to sleep."

Her eyes flickered between the mask and his back before she tilted her head to the side, frowning. "Look at me."

"Did you not hear me? I told you to return to your bed," he continued icily, remaining where he was, but when he spoke again, it was a warning. "Or will I have to put you there myself?"

"Why will you not look at me?" she demanded, slowly finding her voice as she ignored his words.

"Christine." She nearly flinched at the sudden hostility in his tone. "I will not tell you again."

"If you have nothing to hide, then—"

Suddenly, he whirled around and strode over to her, grabbing her forcibly by the shoulders and rendering her immobile. Yelping in shock, she thrashed her arms about to try to get away, but it was when she tried to physically push him away that she ceased to move, ceased to breathe, as her wide eyes trailed down his body.

A vivid redness stained his once pristine shirt, the revolting stench now threatening to empty the contents of her stomach. The colour lay in random patches on the cloth and as her eyes wandered frantically about his attire she noticed that, to her horror, it did not stop there. There were drops of red splattered carelessly about his neck, his bare face, his hands and now on her white nightgown. A shudder ran down her spine, a feeling of inescapable dread taking hold of her.

"Are you satisfied?" he growled, and when he slowly released her from his grip, Christine did not dare look down at the bloody fingerprints that he surely had left in his wake. Instead, she looked into his eyes for the first time that night and saw how bloodshot they were, how they looked as if they were on fire, alight with the pain of his suffering.

"What on earth happened to you? Does it... Does it hurt terribly?" she whimpered. "Why... Oh, please tell me what—oh, _God_ , there's so much... so much _blood_..." With morbid fascination, she stared at him, watching as he touched and pulled at his wet shirt as if he was only just noticing its existence. "You must clean yourself up," she whispered, finally tearing her gaze away from the horrific sight.

"Yes," he murmured, sounding distant and distracted, as if awakening from a trance. "Yes, that is what I must do."

As he stumbled around the room aimlessly, Christine followed, her arms half extending towards him as if to help, but at the sight of the blood being smeared across different surfaces by his clumsy pawing, she could feel her stomach churn. She lowered her arms to her abdomen and tried to silence its protestations as she continued to follow him throughout the halls and into the library. She barely had the mind to comprehend why he went in there.

But she had never seen him like this before, so vulnerable, so... _beaten_ , and that was what terrified her.

Had he been attacked? How had he escaped? Or perhaps it was not a question of escaping.

The Opera Ghost was not one for losing a fight, nor was he one for leaving his victims alive...

"Erik." There was an obvious tremble to her words as she played the awful thought over and over. "Whose blood is that?"

"Christine, your incessant moaning is doing nothing to help," he muttered. "I am doing as you wished. I am going to clean myself up... but I do not remember where I placed the infernal supplies!"

His direct attempt of not answering only fuelled her uncertainties as he fell into his desk chair in defeat.

"Please answer me, Erik." _Please tell me I am wrong._

"Answer what?" he snapped as he held his forehead against the heel of his palms. "There is nothing to answer."

"Whose blood is that?" she asked again, her voice not even carrying to the other side of the small room. But fear and doubt, thicker than the blood on his shirt, soon had her quietly marching to his side in trepidation. "I want to... I _need_ to know if tonight you... if you have _mur_... if you have _murd—_ "

" _Murdered_ , my dear, is that the word you were searching for? Would it be such a surprise to you if I had?" She merely stared at him. "I thought not." He lifted his head towards her, but as soon as he saw how she began to retreat from him it was enough to make his body curl forward in a hunch. Not bringing himself to face the judgement of her fiery eyes, he bowed his head and clasped her hands with as much strength as he could muster without hurting her. "I am not a good man, Christine, you should know that by now. I do not know why you waste your time believing that I am something that I'm not." He sighed. "I am not a good man, nor am I an angel. Christine," here he laughed, "I am not even a man of God and yet you still persist in finding something good within me! Even with glaring evidence against me staring you right in the face, will you still stand here and tell me that I am a good man?"

Her anger stirred as he shuffled towards her in his chair, bending over as one would at an altar, hoping for their dreams, their ambitions to come true or praying diligently for forgiveness. He held her hands, stained with blood, as she stood still, like a statue of a saint, knowing that as he prayed to her, she would not be merciful. "I would feel at ease if only you would answer me truthfully."

"At _ease_?" he spat. "How would you have me answer, Christine? What do you want me to say? That this blood is mine, and mine alone? That your _good_ , _sweet_ Erik did nothing of the sort to harm anyone else?" She winced and turned her head away. "Would that put you at ease, knowing that only Erik was hurt?"

"How could you think such a thing?" she cried, looking down at him, exasperated. "Of course that would not put me at ease! You are hurt! I only wish to know why."

"You want the truth," he said, silently grateful when she did not move away after he dropped his hands to his knees. "I travelled above while you were sleeping. It was idiotic. I could not help it. But there is really nothing more to tell. I was met with some unpleasantness and I dealt with the problem the simplest way I knew how."

"And what does that mean?" she asked slowly.

Gripping his knees, he sighed. "Take from it what you will."

"I do not know what to take from it! You sound as though you deliberately went looking for trouble."

"Oh?" Tension ran through his body as turned to stare at her feet. "What a funny thing to say."

"Then it is true. You are not denying it... Oh, Lord, please say it isn't true." She closed her eyes briefly and rubbed her temples. "Why would you do that to yourself? Why would you put yourself in harm's way?"

Cautiously, Erik glanced towards her bloodstained nightgown, his fingers reaching up to touch one of the stains. "It does not matter."

"But it does!" she retorted. "What caused you to do such an awful thing?"

"It does not matter," he repeated more forcefully.

"I need to know why you did what you... Oh... _N_ _o_... Erik, no. You didn't... not because of what happened earlier. Is that it? Is it because I am leaving?" When he did nothing to reply, she sobbed and covered her face with her hands in a poor attempt to hide her tears. "So _I_ am the cause. _I_ am the reason you are hurt."

" _No_ ," he objected, grabbing her gown and pulling her closer to him. "Only I can be the reason for the things I do. I take full responsibility for my actions." At the sight of her head shaking back and forth, Erik leaned his trembling face against the fistful of cloth in his hands. "I wanted to hurt," he moaned into the material. "Was it so wrong of me to want to suffer? It was the only way, the only way...

"I do not remember how many of them there were," he continued. "I do not remember if I was merely defending myself. I... I do not even remember killing them. Sometimes I don't, you see. Sometimes I black out. But I am sure this blood is mine. Some of it, at least. I _know_ it. It must be. It could not have been cold murder, could it, my love? Please tell me, please tell me that I was not bad. Please tell me that you believe me. Oh, Christine." He shuddered. "Their _screams._ Their screams! It was all I could hear. It is all I remember now. And do you know why they screamed? I showed them my face. I wanted them to fear me, you see. And now... and now there is no hope for me!"

As he wept, Christine wept with him, but she could not bring herself to comfort what he had done. How could she? She had thought that her presence was changing him; that she was bringing out the good in him. But now? "You once told me that I would be the one to redeem you, and yet how can I believe that when I am the one who drives you to do such atrocities?"

"Am I truly lost?" he whimpered; and, for the first time, Christine found herself looking at him as a servant of God, for he was truly afraid. He was afraid for his soul.

"I..." Her words seemed to fail her and, for a moment, her mind was completely absent of thought or aspiration. "I want to believe that your soul is worth saving, but sometimes I question whether it is even possible. Please do not look at me like that, Erik. I know it is a dreadful thing to say, let alone think, but I cannot help it! For so long, I have valued my ability for keeping my faith intact and for having hope, but now... If _I_ do not have faith, how am I to give _you_ any?" She threw her arms up in great despair before placing her hands on either side of her pale forehead, digging her fingertips into her messy hair. "What use am I to you if I cause you so much pain?" she cried to his rigid form. "Maybe it would be best if I were to leave sooner than the new year. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps today! Is that what you want? Is it? Are you _trying_ to drive me away?"

"Please, Christine," he cooed, not caring about her words, not caring that he may now have been irredeemable. " _Please_ , my love, do not cause yourself grief over my burdens. You do give me hope. You have always given me such hope! How could you think otherwise? Please, I beg you, please do not be upset."

"How else do you expect me to feel?" She pulled her arm away from his prying hands as she struggled out of his grip. "How do you _suppose_ that makes me feel? What would _you_ do if I deliberately harmed myself due to something you had said or done?"

He remained silent and Christine allowed that silence to eat away at her. She focused her attention to the floor for she knew that one glance at Erik's heart-wrenching eyes would be her undoing.

She had finally done it, she realised. She had finally succeeded in failing him. Her love had not been strong enough to save him. He was tainted. She couldn't redeem him.

"I am sorry, Erik," she began gently, "but I do not think I can be near you right now."

" _Christine—_ "

"I will give you some privacy to clean yourself up and—"

"Do not leave, Christine!" The thought of her leaving him, not wanting him, was almost too much. What could he say to make her see reason? What could he do to make her stay? "I know I acted rashly but you must not blame yourself! I have always been in control of my own actions!"

"I do not wish to hear your excuses," she snapped, stepping away from him.

"Christine!"

"No!" she shouted, digging her fingernails into her skin to stop herself from succumbing to the longing in his eyes.

On his knees, weeping, he was broken. But she was not like him. She could not tinker with contraptions until they worked again. She had tried and she had failed.

"Please clean yourself up, Erik," she mumbled, heading towards the door, "and then I think you should retire to your bedchamber. You need to rest."

* * *

 **A/N: I didn't want to go down the route of Christine's love being enough to completely transform Erik from his old self. In my mind, he would still be a very damaged person and relapses like this would still happen. With Christine's decision to leave, he began to immediately feel like her love for him and the time they had spent together was all a lie, or perhaps even something he had deceived himself into believing. To him, at the time, even pain was a better option than listening to his paranoid doubts.**


	20. Chapter 20

Perhaps Christine was cowardly to part with him—the look on his face still haunted her—but she knew she was right to have left him there. It was only after she had heard his door close that her tense muscles had begun to unwind and a mass of guilt had come over her. But how could she not feel guilty when her very presence caused such things to happen?

Once she arrived at her bedchamber, she was quick to rid herself of the bloody nightgown before shuffling over towards her basin on the dresser and drowning her hands in the water. The cold pricked at her skin, but she did not feel it. She only wanted the red gone from her sight. Frantic scrubbing left her flesh a ripe pink as she wiped herself dry and longed to submerge herself in scalding hot water. A bath had never sounded so appealing to her as it did in that moment. But, as tempted as she was, she told herself that she could not allow herself the luxury, not while Erik suffered so, and not while the mirror still lay broken in one of the corridors. Replacing her nightgown with a clean one, she then dragged her heavy body back towards the clutter.

Kneeling down next to the mirror, Christine found herself drained of her energy, and yet even sleep did not seem to appeal to her. Her hand reached out without thinking and scooped up a large piece of glass, tilting it so that her bloodshot eyes were reflected back at her. Her image trembled and it surprised her that her nerves did not cause her to drop the shard. Instead, she merely held onto it with a strength that was beyond her as her mind began to wander.

Was her affection for Erik so strong that it was blinding her to the realities of a life with him? She hoped that was not the case, for she was well aware of the hardships she could potentially face. It did not stop her from doubting, however, and the more she thought on it, the more she realised just how content she had been. And truly, she had been content to live out her days with him as they had been doing this past month. There had been no incidents, no episodes, only love and a mutual shyness, and Christine was loathe to admit to herself that she had become forgetful in their domestic bliss...

A veil had been placed over her eyes and she had become blind to the horrors of which Erik was capable. A part of her never forgot this, of course, but it was so easy to suppress those thoughts when he had made her so happy. And she had been happy... so very _happy..._

But that veil was now torn, and though an anger began to stir within her, tears did not reach her eyes. Numb and still vacantly distant, she did not realise that she had begun to ball her hand into a trembling fist. She did not even feel the sensation of glass cutting into her flesh, not until a small line of blood slowly ran down her palm and onto her wrist.

Her lips parted as she glanced down, but her features otherwise remained passive to the ghastly sight and the shard remained in her tight grip. All of her coherent thought, her logic, her instinct to unfurl her fingers ceased to be, and she became almost transfixed by her own blood.

It only took the sound of her shaky exhale to break her trance, however, and she immediately dropped the glass. The further sound of it clashing against other pieces of the mirror firmly brought Christine back to the present with a violent shudder.

The air brushing against the cuts only made her all the more aware of the cruel sting of the glass and though she was lucky to have not been injured more severely, she could not very well return to her room. With the way she had just unconsciously acted, she did not trust herself to be alone. No, she could not be alone right now, no matter how much her heart protested.

She needed help. She needed the supplies. She needed _him._

o0o

The muscles in Erik's neck began to complain as he sat on the floor in one corner of his room, his head tilted as far forward as it could, his arm resting on one drawn up leg. Strips of cloth lay beside him, as did his mask, but he paid neither any attention, choosing to instead stare at the candle which was placed at his feet.

His wounds were not as drastic as he had first thought. Cleaning them had been easy and quick enough, but now he was left alone in the darkness with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company. And how he hated them.

His actions, though questionable, had not been because of Christine. How could she have thought such an ugly thing? She had made him so happy, so _sane_... Tonight had been a mere lapse in that sanity. Yes, yes, that must have been it. There was no other explanation. But how he had wanted to explain that to her! Her words had scorched him and he had simply let her leave after that. Why had he not stopped her and forced her to see reason? His sigh filled the air around him. The answer was in the question. There was _no_ reason to see.

His behaviour had been that of a madman and, true to his nature, he remembered wanting, _needing_ something to replace that feeling of sadness which had gnawed at his insides. To have lived so long without kindness was manageable, but to live a single month with unconditional _love_ and to potentially have that love taken away from him, where he could not see it or hear it or experience it every day, was maddening.

For a slight moment, he had even thought of numbing his pain with the substance he had once craved. But as tempted as he had been, he would not allow himself to return to the little case of velveteen, whose contents had beckoned him tonight as seductively as a siren's call. Even now, his skin tingled underneath his many layers at the thought of feeling the prick of the needle once more. But he would not return to it. For Christine, he would _never_ return to it.

A knock on his chamber door roused him from his state of grief, though he did not make any move to answer it.

"Erik?" Her little voice carried through the wood so elegantly and yet he only wound his fingers into the material of his trousers, his attempts at summoning the strength to resist her call overriding his urge to crawl towards her and lay at her feet. Why did she feel the need to torment him further? "Are you awake?" Another knock. "Are you all right?"

 _Ah_ , _how nice of her to inquire_ , he thought resentfully. "I am perfectly fine," he managed to say through gritted teeth.

A pause, and then, "Have you cleaned yourself up?" Another knock. "Erik? I-I only ask because... Erik, if you are finished with the supplies, could you leave them outside the door? I will put them away for you."

"Why do you not just come in and take them?" he snapped, aggravated by her constant questioning. "Do as you please. I care not." Why could the woman not leave him in peace?

"I... I do not want to disturb you," was her weak answer. "You need your rest." Another pause ensued, and then she continued, " _Are_ you finished with the supplies?"

Accepting that she would not desist in her interrogation, he dragged himself to his feet and swiftly replaced his mask. Creaking open his door, his body hidden in darkness and his white fingers clawing round the edge of the frame, he eyed her suspiciously.

"Are you well rested?" she asked, her voice shaky and her smile forced.

Taking in her appearance, Erik noticed the tiny splatters of blood on one sleeve of her nightgown which poked out from behind her back. Had she not changed yet? "What do you want?"

"I wanted to help you with the supplies," she said. "I know how frustrated you were earlier when you could not find them. And... I wanted to make sure that you were all right."

His fingernails dug into the chipped wood of the door as he turned his gaze to the floor. "I thought you did not wish to share my company. You made that quite clear."

"I merely wanted some time to myself, as did you, no doubt." She smiled nervously again. "Erik? The supplies?" she prompted once more. "May I have them if you are finished, please?"

"Why?" he asked, becoming increasingly annoyed. "What is this fascination with the supplies? Why do you keep asking?"

"I said that I would put them away for—"

"I am quite capable of doing things myself," he snarled. "Before I knew you, I managed perfectly well when I was injured. I may be wounded now, Christine, but I am not an invalid." As he stared at her, something settled in the pit of his stomach. Something unpleasant. "Hold out your arms," he suddenly commanded, stepping into the light. She was paler than usual.

Her doe eyes widened and flickered about the hallway anxiously. "What? Why?"

"Hold out your arms," he repeated forcefully. "Do as I have commanded, Christine."

"No, I— _Ahh_!" A searing pain ran through her as Erik reached around her and grabbed both of her hands, bringing them forward and causing her body to bend and shrivel. "Please let go," she whimpered. "Please, let _go_."

As soon as he registered her words, he released her, recoiling from the sight, glancing downwards to see beads of blood slowly trickling down her arm—the blood which now covered his fingertips. _Her_ blood.

" _Merde_ ," he whispered in disbelief. "What have you done to yourself? Why did you insist on skulking behind my back? If you needed medical attention, why did you not ask for it?"

She flinched away at the sound of his voice. It was filled with anger, so much anger and pain. "I-I did not want you to worry. You already had so much to do. You had to clean yourself up. These are just scratches compared to yours..."

Briskly collecting the supplies and basin from inside his room, Erik then returned and gently guided her over to the settee, where he sat her down upon it. A huff escaped him as he lowered the basin to the floor and carefully raised her wounded arm, desperate to see how much damage there was.

As he rolled her sleeve up and began to dab slowly at the vile liquid, he could feel his breathing ease at the sight of the colour fading away. While he worked, he could feel her eyes on him, but he did not look up, not even when she would hiss as the wet cloth brushed over a cut.

Putting the cloth down, he turned her arm around in his hands, inspecting her carefully. "Tell me what happened."

"I was tired, I suppose. I only wanted to bathe and rest, but I remembered the mirror that you smashed and..." She sighed, appreciating his cool touch before he bent down and began to cleanse her cuts once more. "I am not certain how it happened. I... I must have stumbled and fell. It's silly, now that I say it aloud, but it was an accident."

"Is that really what happened?" he asked her quietly. "You simply tripped?"

"Yes," she said shakily. "How else could I have done it?"

The water felt so soothing on her skin that all her questions seemed to melt away as she began to relax, despite the lack of response from Erik. The hands that were drenched in red not one hour ago, the hands that had had guilt woven through every fibre of them, now held hers in such a loving manner that she could not help but contradict her earlier accusations.

While it was true that Erik had admitted to his crimes, there truly were times when she doubted his viciousness. She did not need a veil to think that, however. She knew he had murdered before, but, despite the blatant absurdity of it all, she still believed him to be a good man.

And, God forgive her, she still loved him.

She would _continue_ to love him.

A small smile appeared on her mouth. Perhaps she truly was as mad as Erik.

"You are lucky, Christine," he told her then, his tone weary and strained, but it was still preferable to his anger, she promptly decided. "You thankfully do not appear to have any shards in your skin," he said before lowering the soaked cloth into the discoloured water, "and your cuts do not appear to be deep." He caught her retreating hand in between both of his as he continued, "One more thing." His fingers lightly stroked her skin as he spoke. "You are lucky that you have chosen to leave. I see that now."

"Why should that make me lucky?" she murmured.

He ignored her question at first, turning instead to wrap her hand and wrist up securely in bandages. His shoulders rose and fell in a solemn motion as he worked and Christine knew that he was holding the weight of the world. There was still so much that she did not yet know.

"You will not have to be subjected to my ravings, my turmoil and my unpredictability," he explained. "It will all be a thing of the past for you."

"Why do you speak in such a manner?" she asked. "Why do you speak as if we shall never see each other again? It is nonsense. We _shall_ see each other." She paused, considering his words. "That is not what you meant, was it?"

His eyes met hers for a second before he shamefully looked away. "I do not mean to do the things I do, Christine. It is an implausible truth, but it _is_ a truth. I once thought that every crime I committed was done out of love for you. I would have done anything for you, and I still would, but I was blind and reckless, a _fool_ to think my actions were spurred on by such a feeling. But how was I to know? I had never known love before. I was a monster longing for something more—the taboo love of an angel.

"Listen to me, all this talk of good and evil. I do not sound sane, do I?" He closed his eyes, gathering Christine's hands to his chest, holding them close enough to feel his steady pulse against her. "I often wondered why God gave me life if not to wander the earth alone. But then I heard you sing and your voice pulled me from the miserable black chasm that was my life and, from that day forward, I had a reason for living. You gave me a purpose; though I confess, it was not until much later on that I realised just how much you meant to me. While our souls blended through music, it was my heart which bled for you. It craved your love more than anything and I wanted it all to myself. I was a selfish man and, to this day, I still am. But nothing I did was ever in spite of you. Never, never, never...You deserve so much better than this, than _me_."

Slowly, she repositioned their hands so hers now encased his, her fingers massaging his dry skin in smooth, circular motions. "Maybe so," she replied.

"You must know, though," he continued before she could say any more. "You were not the cause for any of my actions. You are not to blame for my crimes. You were _never_ to blame. You must believe me. I cannot have you feeling guilty because of it."

"But I do feel guilty," she said, swallowing thickly. "You idolise me, though I do not deserve it. I do not think I can live up to your expectations of me anymore, Erik. Don't you see that it will only lead to disappointment? You say that I am the one to save you, but what if I am not? What if the only one who can truly save you is _yourself_? I cannot work miracles. I can support you, I can help you, but I cannot be the one to _heal_ you. You, alone, have the power to save your soul."

As her words sank in, Erik thought about the implications of her suggestion. Nonsense, was his first outcome. Utter nonsense. But the more he thought about it, the more rational it became. What if she was right? What if... _No_ , his convoluted mind screamed. After years of hoping, of convincing himself that she was the only one who could save him, how could he possibly believe that he had the power to save himself?

Turning her hands over, Erik traced the indentations and texture of her palms and her fingers with complete devotion, as if committing them to memory.

Only after granting him several minutes of continuous study did Christine finally speak again. "How are your injuries?"

"I will live." Raising her hand to his mouth, Erik kissed her scraped wrist before returning both hands to her lap. "They will heal in time."

"I do worry. Are you sure you are all right?" When he did not answer, she swept her eyes over him. His shirt was clean and as stiff as one worn by a nobleman attending an evening gathering, while his skin seemed rather pink, like her own, no doubt a result of scrubbing. "Erik?"

"Yes?"

Bravely, she leaned forward and managed to stroke the mask's hard exterior before he pulled away from her. Defeated, she frowned and tilted her head to the side. "Why do you still wear this around me?" He remained silent. "You should let your skin breathe and... I want you to know that when you are with me, you are safe. There is no need for you to lash out like you have. You do not need to hide yourself from me. I know you carry the weight of many tragedies on your shoulders, but you have made your face into one of them. It does not have to be that way. These are not my burdens to bear, I know, but allow me to carry some of the weight for you."

Within his mind, he was torn. The phrases she would weave were so very pretty and they were pure music to his ears, but too often had she seen his face, as bare as his vulnerability. Though his heart longed for acceptance, he knew that he would never be entirely comfortable with another person looking at his face. But the look in her eyes, the innocent plea circling in the black of her irises, was too agonising, too beautiful to resist.

Breathing in sharply, he reached up and braced his fingers against the mask, preparing himself for the rush of cool air to follow. "Do not... look," he begged of her.

"But, Erik, I—"

"No," he insisted, keeping his hands still. "Do not look until it is removed, until I _want_ you to look. Will you... Will you do this for me?"

Her brow creased in silent protestation before she nodded and turned her body away from him.

When Erik was sure that she would not move, he slowly lifted the mask from his face, allowing it to drop carelessly onto the floor as he stared at her, pulse racing.

For once, he was not at a loss of power. His face was bare and yet he did not feel that irrepressible urge to hide himself. It was just as she had said.

Prolonging this moment of insatiable control, he swallowed the lump forming in his throat and shifted closer to his silent siren. If he now but breathed deeply, his chest would touch the cotton of her nightgown and he would be able to feel the warmth of her back through his shirt. From this angle and proximity, he could see every imperfection in her skin, every hint of auburn in her hair, and her _scent_ _ _..__ _._ Leaning his face into her hair was the most exquisite feeling he had ever experienced. Her curls tickled and teased and stroked him, and Erik feared his heart would stop when he heard her inhale sharply at the sudden contact.

Keeping his face close to hers, he turned her head around by the lightest touch of his fingers to her chin and shuddered at the softness of her slack jaw. Time seemed to slow then, a lifetime passing between each heady breath as their foreheads touched and their mouths parted, shakily drawing in the stagnant air around them. Erik drew the back of his forefinger over the curve of her cheek, just barely touching her, before following a path down to her neck.

There he held her, his fingers woven through brown locks as her hand came up to stroke the uneven skin on his face. With a shy smile, she brushed her fingers against the odd textures of his misshapen features, tracing the creases on his forehead, the smoothness of his sunken eyelids, making sure to not leave any part of his face untouched. As she trailed lower, Erik suddenly turned his head sideways and captured her fingers in a kiss.

He looked at her lovingly as he smiled slightly, savouring the hypnotic call of her eyes and the allure of her mouth. Her head tilted under his gaze and as she moved, strands of hair fell over her face, her skin like carved marble in the candlelight and each curl a crease in her virginal veil.

"I love you," he whispered, touching her cheek before pushing back the hair which covered her features. "Do you... Do you still love me?"

It was the steady silence that followed his question that stilled his touch before she turned around and gathered his hand to her heart. Her answer was quiet, merely a passing of breath between parted lips, like a soft voice upon the air, yet it was undeniably truthful.

"I do," she told him, striking a mixture of pity and happiness into both of their souls.

He released a strange noise, something akin to a strangled, short laugh and said, "Even after all I have done, you still love me."

"I do," she repeated, laying their hands down between their bodies before gathering him in her arms, his face resting against her breast as she kissed the crown of his head. "Heaven help me, I do."

With a sigh, he succumbed to her embrace, wrapping his arms tightly around her as he allowed her to cradle him like a hapless babe. " _Why_ do you love me?" he murmured into her nightgown, his fingers wrapping themselves around the soft material, pressing her closer.

"I cannot answer that," she whispered, her mouth brushing against wisps of his thin hair and, for a while, they simply held each other, neither wishing for words to interrupt this moment.

Eventually, Erik pulled himself away so that he was able to look up at her, his fingers light and tentative at her chin. To his surprise, she leaned into his touch, those horrible creases on her forehead returning as she glanced down at him, her gaze flitting from his eyes to his mouth. It was not a surprise, then, that he did not move a muscle when her lips suddenly, and chastely, covered his.

"Erik did not deserve that," he said once the cold had washed away all feeling of her warmth on his mouth.

"No," she agreed quietly.

"But you would still kiss these lips?" he asked, bewildered that she would even continue to touch him after his despicable behaviour.

Christine did not dignify this with an answer and was simply too exhausted to go about their usual route of self-doubt and hurried reassurances. Instead, she drew his face upwards with steady hands and kissed his mouth with as much strength as she could muster before watching him slide to his feet in a fit of sobs.

"I think... I think I best see to that mirror, lest you hurt yourself again," he said at long last, his red and blurry eyes not daring to look at her as he fled the room.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: You can think of this chapter as the half way point of the story, or the lead up to 'Act II', haha. It's more or less a filler, but it acts as a transition between the 'Acts'.**

 **In other news, I have now officially joined Tumblr, so if anyone wants to go check it out for all things Phantom (and other things, haha), my username is the same as it is on here.**

* * *

As Christine took an unprecedented seat at the piano, she felt relaxed for she knew that she was alone. Erik, at this moment, was out delivering the letters she had written and had handed to him. One letter had been addressed to Mamma Valérius, asking for her permission to stay with her in a few weeks' time, while the other had been addressed to Meg and her mother, explaining her situation to them as best she could.

She had approached Erik that morning rather quietly, almost shyly. It was a strange change after their growing intimacy and courage. Or, perhaps her actions were justified after the ordeal of the previous night. They had greeted each other timidly, speaking slowly, yet edging closer. Behind her back, Christine had been twirling the two envelopes around and around and it was a miracle that she had not dropped them. Not wanting to dwell in the moment any longer than she needed to, Christine clutched the letters before stretching out her arm in offering. A few seconds went by before Erik had raised one arm and reached for them.

Their eyes had locked, their gazes unwavering, but as his hand had touched the paper, one of his fingertips had coyly brushed against hers. Perhaps it had been a case of misjudged distance, or perhaps it hadn't. The sudden coldness of his skin had parted her dry lips, daring her debauched mind to crave another touch.

Even now, as her hands clumsily fumbled around the keys on the piano to find coherent chords, her skin still tingled at the memory of that little, insignificant moment. Her betrayal ran down her spine in a curious wave which caused her head to lull forward, a dulcet sigh on the tip of her tongue as she waited for the sensation to pass.

Clearing her throat in an attempt to distract herself, she once again turned her attention towards the keys below, the melodies not coming as easily as she struggled to remember the correct notes. Her teeth caught her lower lip in frustration as a horrid false note echoed around the room. She even found herself condemning Erik's ability to make playing an instrument appear simple. Simple! A short laugh, contained, yet mirthful, merged with her phrasing as her ears fell victim to yet another blundering mistake.

Irked, yet not discouraged, Christine clenched her jaw and began to repeat the troublesome phrase over and over again, wincing when she pressed down on the wrong key—the slight discomfort in her wrist more prominent at these moments—and breathing a sigh of relief when she succeeded.

All in all, though she was not as accomplished as she ought to have been, her playing was not too disastrous. She merely lacked practise, or at least that was what she told herself when bony fingers suddenly appeared out of her peripheral vision and gently encased her left hand.

"Oh," she said, her voice nothing more than a whisper as she felt Erik's jacket brush against the back of her dress. "I did not hear you return."

"I did not wish to disturb you," he murmured into her ear, the tiny hairs on her neck raising as his breath teased her skin. "Why do you not play more often?"

It was incomprehensible how even the most innocent of words could incite such a wickedly foreign feeling within her. Erik was certainly not the handsomest of men, nor was he the most saintly. Her better judgement would have forced her far from his arms were if not for the wild beating of her heart—the heart which beat for him alone.

Meeting his gaze, her chest softly heaved as she swiftly recovered from the proximity of their faces. "Were you not listening?" she breathed, skirting her eyes over his relaxed features before landing on his intrusive mask. "'Poorly' does not even begin to describe my playing."

"Hmm," he said, lightly manoeuvring the fingertips beneath his to the correct placements on the keys before pressing down on them to create a harmonious sound. "But do you not remember how your voice first faired before my tutelage?"

Christine sighed at his subtle, yet haughty words and slipped her hands away from his, allowing him to access to the keys. She leant back against him, her head falling to the crook of his neck as he began to play. "How can I forget?" she said, frowning at the unpleasant memory. "I am still surprised you managed to find something worth moulding and caring for."

At this, Erik's playing quietened and he moved his long fingers along her sleeves before coming to sit beside her on the bench. His quivering touch met the warmth of her cheek as he smiled shrewdly. "I could say the very same for you, my love."

Coyly, Christine returned the smile, but she could not find it in herself to voice her disheartening troubles. The night before had been a painful reminder of Erik's capabilities, and how easily months of progress could simply vanish in a matter of hours. Yet, she still held out hope for a change in him, for clarity to strike and make him see sense. She believed now that only he could save himself and she prayed that he would one day have the strength to see that.

Clearing her throat, she looked away, back down to the silent keys which ached to be touched. "Did you manage to deliver the letters?"

Erik mumbled a confirmed reply, but was suddenly fixated on the steady rhythm of her pulse, visible at the base of her neck. Leaning forward, he very lightly stroked the little patch of skin, his fingers almost recoiling as the pulsing quickened to a soft throbbing under his touch. She turned to look at him then, her eyes as wide as his shadowed ones. "Are you... pleased?" he asked, trailing his fingertips along her collarbone before letting them fall to his lap.

With her weighty gaze, she followed their descent briefly before frowning. "What do you mean?"

"Are you happy that I have delivered the letters; that you are one step closer to leaving?" he clarified.

His tone was incredulous and Christine found herself thinking on the various meanings behind his words. After a moment's pause she replied, "I am not happy to be leaving but I am pleased that you have agreed to this."

Unable to resist the temptation any longer, Erik leant into her hair, tentatively placing his hands on her shoulders, pulling her to him, but freezing when Christine tenderly reached up with her own hand and began stroking his knuckles with her thumb.

"If you are pleased, I am pleased," he whispered against her.

The sensation of his breath on her neck again was a cause for distraction, she mused, and in a haze she managed to murmur, "You really should be resting, Erik. Your wounds cannot have healed overnight. I feel terrible for letting you leave today, but you were so... insistent. Do you know how obstinate of a man you are?"

"I am perfectly fine to be walking about," he replied. "Circulation is a good thing. I should not sit around doing nothing all day. But what of your wounds? How are you faring?"

She glanced down and brought her bandaged wrist closer to her body. "My _scratches_ can hardly be called wounds, Erik, and I do mean it when I say I worry about you. You are so quick to ignore your own health and I wish you wouldn't. Please do not disregard my concern."

"Then do not disregard mine," Erik said, his tone serious, but his eyes glinting with mirth.

Reaching forward, she stroked the hardness of his jaw. "Why do I love you?" she asked, echoing his words from the night before.

"I do not think there will ever be an answer to that," he replied, raising his hand to cover hers, "but I am thankful every day that there is cause for the question."

o0o

The days seemed to blend together after that and Christine soon learnt that she would always forgive Erik for his misdoings, no matter how enraged she was or how dreadful the crime. Self-hatred would always follow her acceptance and though he never again appeared with mysterious blood stains on him, or did anything that would cause her sense of morality to disappear, she would still worry every time he was out of her sight. Like a child, he needed someone constantly there beside him, to teach him, to supervise him, but above all, to _care_ for him. And care for him, she did. It was no wonder then that she began to feel anxious when the new year approached.

Mamma Valérius had agreed to her request to stay with her and had settled on the day after the new year for her arrival. The old woman was rather enthusiastic about the whole idea, detailing in her shaky penmanship how thrilled she was. Madame Giry's reply had been just as enthusiastic, though she was simply pleased that Christine was finally seeing enough sense to live elsewhere.

On Christmas Eve, Erik gave in to her request to attend a church service, but since he did not entertain the concept of religion, she found herself travelling alone. Grateful yet disappointed at the same time, Christine prayed for his soul diligently as the comforting drone of hymns echoed around her.

The next day was rather tranquil. The walls were not decorated in colourful trimmings and there was no sign of a freshly cut tree, but when Christine had begun to sing a carol, Erik had felt his heart warm. Presents were exchanged later that night. Although he had not requested anything, nor had he even mentioned the idea of gift-giving, Christine could not help but fall into her old routine.

The week leading up to Christmas, she had spent every moment of her spare time creating her gift. Using any piece of spare material and thread that she could find, she was determined to make something that he would appreciate and that he could use and think of her whenever he looked at it.

After a hearty dinner, Erik had led her to the music room, his bony features pulled up in a modest smile as he positioned her in a chair, ready for a performance. A glorious prelude on his violin was his gift to her, and afterwards a concerto in three movements, every note enriching her senses, making her heart feel as light as air. Tears of happiness silently ran down her cheeks as she listened and, when he had finally finished and had stood as still as stone, she had thanked him with a deep kiss. His arms had come about her then, wrapping round her body and pulling her close, his hands threading through her hair, as tentative and as curious as the first time they had embraced.

When it was Christine's turn, she had approached him shyly, her hands behind her back, hiding the gift from this eyes. He had not questioned her but merely stared at her hands when she finally revealed to him what she was hiding.

"This is for you," she stated, blushing as his slender fingers reached for the object and set it down on his lap. She had then sat down beside him, eyes darting between his lap and his face in apprehension. And suddenly, she wished for the strength to snatch it back from him and flee. His face, though bare, had not moved at all since laying eyes on the object, and Christine could feel sweat begin to gather on the palms on her hands. "Is... Is it to your liking?" she asked slowly, unsure of herself.

Erik gazed down as his fingertips ghosted over the gift. A thin layer of silk lay across his legs, covered lovingly in intricate embroidery. Hand sewn red roses bloomed on vines, twisting left and right, a few petals were pictured having fallen to the ground, while others were captured in mid-air.

"It is a pillow case," Christine explained as she became nervous by his silence.

"Yes," was all he whispered.

"You do not like it," she concluded sadly with a shake of her head.

Defeated, she was about to rise when his hand suddenly shot out and caught hers, making her stop in her motions and turn towards him. Gently, he urged her to sit beside him once more before casting a glance into her eyes. He raised her captured hand up to his mouth and kissed it, his lips lingering on her soft skin. "I do, my love, I do! I only... Erik has never been given a gift before," he told her before bringing the small case to his lips. "Thank you, Christine. Oh, _thank you_."

o0o

When the day finally came for Christine to leave, they found that they did not have much to say to one another. Throughout the day, they had stayed together, silently shadowing each other's movements. Neither wished to face that void; neither wished to face that loneliness which would soon follow. With the time they had remaining, they simply basked in each other's company and delighted in the strange comfort it brought them.

That evening, they shared their last duet together. He played beautifully, but even his skill could not mask the tremors in those phrases that his hands sought desperately to conceal.

The carriage that had brought Christine to her guardian on her birthday was the same one that would take her back now. Her suitcases were deposited next to the driver as Erik helped her into the warmth of enclosed seats.

All was silent during the journey, save for the rattle of wheels and the sound of the wind. It seemed to sing their lament. Christine had so much to say to the man beside her but her words never saw the light of day. The silence between them was thick and it became an oppressing force. They sat but a small distance apart and both were aware of how little it would take for them to succumb to each other's arms, indulging in their own whims and delight one last time. But not once did they attempt to close the distance between them. Erik, however, could not bare this and so settled for reaching over and holding her hand. He held it with a fierceness that had Christine wishing for their gloves to vanish so that she might feel his skin on her.

When the carriage stopped, Christine could hear the driver climbing down, dragging her belongings along with him. With doleful eyes, she leaned forward and started to reluctantly pull her captured hand away when Erik turned and kissed their entwined fingers. Seconds later, his knuckles brushed against her cold cheek, guiding her head around slowly until her lips met his in ardent defeat.

"Be safe, my love," he whispered, their breaths mingling.

"Be good to yourself," she murmured in reply as he leaned in to press another kiss against her mouth.

Knowing that she would not leave the carriage otherwise, Christine tore herself away from him and opened the door, stepping out to see her suitcases already waiting at her feet. She turned and took one last look into Erik's gleaming eyes before she closed the door and stepped back, shivering as the black carriage was swallowed by the night.


	22. Chapter 22

A brief but strong breeze threatened to push Christine off her feet as she knocked on the door and waited impatiently to be let in. Two more knocks at the door and then finally it opened.

The friendly smile that had been on her face, the one which had been for little Simone, vanished when she looked down and saw only the hem of a long, sober dress. Her eyes slowly trailed up a plump body she did not recognise until she reached two beady blue eyes, narrowed under a heavy brow.

"You must be Mademoiselle Daaé," the middle-aged woman said, her voice gravelly and her tone harsh. Without another word, she bent down, pulled the suitcases out of Christine's grip and into her own coarse hands before stepping to the side, allowing her entrance. "Come inside."

Thankful to be out of the weather, Christine hurried into the warmth but regarded the woman before her with a speculative expression. "Where is Simone?" she asked, watching the stranger move heavily across the length of the room, her body swaying from side to side in a curious little waddle.

The woman sniffed dismissively and turned her gaze slightly over her shoulder. "Who, Mademoiselle?"

Christine frowned as she began to follow her up the creaking stairs. "The girl," she explained. "The girl who has worked for Madame Valérius alongside Madame Dumas for a little over two years."

Another sniff. "Oh, _her_. I sent her away last month."

Christine very nearly stopped in her tracks at the mention of this news. "Sent away? Why was I not informed?" she demanded.

"Didn't Madame mention it in her letter, Mademoiselle?"

"No," Christine answered distantly. "No, she did not."

"Ah, well, she was simply not up to my standards," the woman replied indifferently. "She was getting in the way and I did not want—"

"Excuse me?" Christine stopped near the top of the stairs, affronted. "What authority do you have to decide this?"

The woman seemed to remember herself after this as she stopped outside a closed door and faced Christine with her head slightly bowed. "Forgive me, Mademoiselle, but there are things that you do not yet know. It was rude of me not to introduce myself earlier. I am Madame Martin—Marie. I was hired, along with a few others, to help care for your guardian." She shifted uncomfortably. "That girl was not capable of taking care of Madame Valérius, you see, especially considering—"

"Considering what?"

Christine saw Mme Martin's thick fingers tighten around the handles of her suitcases. What was she not telling her? "Your guardian... She did not want to distress you in her letter. She thought it best if you were informed when you arrived... though _why_ , I do not know," she muttered to herself. Her dull eyes flickered up to see confusion written all over the young woman's face and she begrudgingly turned to open the door in front of them, not wishing to be the bearer of bad news. "This will be your room, Mademoiselle." She walked into the spacious room and placed the suitcases down upon the freshly made bed. "If there is anything else that I can do—"

"Yes, there is," Christine said as she slowly removed her gloves, throwing them down onto the pressed sheets before looking up at the strange woman before her. "Instead of acting like I am a stranger in this household, I would appreciate having respect in my own home. Though I am yet to know the reasons, you are here in this household as an employee, and you will do well to remember that."

As the words left her mouth, Christine clasped her hands together to stop them from quivering. Gone was the meek girl who once shied away from confrontation and here stood a woman who was not afraid to unleash the darker remnants of her soul. She had hardly recognised her own voice as it reprimanded and scolded, dripping with the authoritative tone she had never had. "Tell me what my guardian did not," she then said, softening her words so that she might receive a direct answer.

Mme Martin felt as though she were standing on hot rocks. Unwanted apprehension filled her weary body as she briefly considered fleeing down the stairs. Why had Madame Valérius allowed her ward to live here if she did not explain everything beforehand? Foolish! Heaven help her. "Mademoiselle, I would... I would rather not be the one to—"

"Please," Christine murmured, noting Mme Martin's flustered appearance. "I would appreciate it greatly if you would tell me."

"Yes," she said at long last with a nod of her head, unable to look into the young girl's eyes and continue to see nothing but unjustified hurt. "You see, Mademoiselle, this winter has been particularly harsh and I was hired, with two other women, to help with the duties around the house as well as making sure Madame Valérius receives the correct medical attention." Her sullen eyes glanced up just in time to see the colour drain from the ward's face. "Your guardian's health has slowly deteriorated over the past few months."

Christine could scarce believe what she was hearing and when she spoke, her voice was hoarse and but a whisper, a mere shadow of the power it held moments ago. "Where is she? Tell me where she is, I want to know. Now."

"The second door down from this one, but she is sleeping and I wouldn't _—Mademoiselle_!"

Christine was only vaguely aware of the warnings being shouted at her from down the hallway, but she was already gone. Her coat and dress skirts rustled about as she ran the short length, lurched her hand out onto the cold door handle and opened it.

A wave of heat immediately flooded Christine's senses as she entered the foreboding bedchamber. A large fire burned in the black fireplace on one side of the room, while on the other side lay Madame Valérius. Blood racing, Christine hurried over and dropped to her knees at her bedside, gazing at the woman in dire concern. Her guardian's eyes were closed and her chest rose and fell in slow, monotonous repetition. The frightful pallor of her face was that of the nightgown she donned and a thin layer of sweat speckled her skin like morning dew. Her grey hair was tied in a loose plait which fell across her shoulder like frayed yarn and Christine reached over slowly to stroke it, remembering how soft it had once been. She then moved her hand to rest on top of her guardian's joined ones, those sharply raised bones digging into her palm ever so slightly. She was as cold as death.

"For the past fortnight, she has not moved from that bed," Mme Martin explained from the doorway. "That is, under our orders, she has been confined to her bed. The stairs," she explained. "She would only exert herself. It is better that she rests."

Leaning against the soft covers, Christine rested her spinning head on her outstretched arms, the roar of the fire creeping over her back felt like a suffocating blanket. Focusing on the tiny threads beneath her, she was able to calm her mind enough to push a question out of her dry mouth. "What is wrong with her?"

Mme Martin, who had not moved from the threshold, stood watching the pitiful scene before her, almost feeling like an intruder. When she heard the ward speak up, her head bowed solemnly as she uttered one inconsolable phrase, "She has consumption."

Fear ensnared Christine as she sprang to her feet. "What did you say?"

Mme Martin looked at the young woman with clinical coldness. "I am sorry to be the one to tell you this."

 _She will not recover_ , _she will not recover_ , _she will not recover_ , was all that was circulating round Christine's mind at that moment. There was not even any point in asking if there was a chance that she was merely overreacting. This illness was not new to her.

"She is sedated at the moment," Mme Martin explained. "The night is the worst time for her. She breaks out into a sweat and—"

"Yes," Christine murmured, holding up a hand to silence her. "I am... very much aware of the details, thank you." Her head was starting to spin again, her vision becoming blurry with each second she stayed in this room. "When will I be able to speak to her?"

"Tomorrow morning at the very latest, I am afraid." Another pause. "I _am_ sorry, Mademoiselle Daaé. We are doing all we can to make her comfortable."

"I am certain you are, and I appreciate it. I really do," Christine replied almost instantly, though her words were devoid of any sentiment or proper appreciation. Her eyes kept to the floor as she made her way out of the room. "If there is anything I can do to help with her condition, anything at all, please... Allow me to do what I can," she told Mme Martin and was grateful to see her nod in passing.

Closing her own bedchamber door behind her, Christine did not have time to take in her surroundings as her legs began to weaken. Seconds later, they buckled under the weight of her body and she stumbled, clutching violently at one of her bedposts to keep her upright, her knuckles turning a ghostly white as her fingers all but dug into the fine wood. With eyes screwed shut, she let her mouth hang open as half strangled moans escaped her.

After she failed to compose herself, she rid herself of her overly warm attire and scrambled to the floor. Rising to her knees, made uncomfortable by the thin material of her chemise between her legs and the hard flooring, she reached around her neck until her fingers were able to wrap themselves around her mother's prayer necklace. Once it was secured between her shaky palms, she began to mumble underneath her breath, over and over again, praying, praying for strength, praying for guidance, for answers, for a miracle.

Mamma Valérius would live, Christine vowed to herself. She _would_ live through this _._ She was certain of it. She _had_ to be certain of it. _She had to be_...

o0o

A few hours later, everything had settled into a quiet sense of acceptance. Christine was acquainted with the rest of the staff, their names and their purposes. She glazed over the introductions with a polite smile and then took a great deal of time unpacking, solemnly placing her clothes and a few trinkets around the room which she would again call her own. A few slices of bread and butter made up her late dinner and it astounded her that she was able to swallow anything while her stomach still churned and taunted her.

Climbing into a new bed in a new room simply caused Christine to compare it with her old one. And sleep did not take her until far into the night, until her mind had detached itself from the stress of all that today had brought, and only then was she free to dream...

 _A single tear runs down my painted cheeks and my feline-like eyes stare back at me in a gold rimmed mirror. Rose petals are strewn across the dressing room I sit in. It is my dressing room. Bouquets of flowers, varying in size and colour, each giving off a new and intriguing scent, are also placed around the room._

 _I see success reflected behind me. I see sadness reflected in my eyes._

 _I stand up. My gown spills around my form and trails along the ground behind me. It matches the rest of the room with blazing decadence._

 _I look up to see shadows dancing around me, pale ghosts twirling through objects, flying through walls, whispering to one another and laughing. The laughter stops when they all turn to look at me, their immaterial faces flickering and fading with each breath. A whisper or two is again shared between them before I become uneasy. I begin to back away until my back hits the door. Fumbling around for the doorknob, I see them advancing on me and only when I firmly slam the door behind me do I feel safe again. I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the frame. My palms rest on the wood. Though they are ghosts, I somehow know that I could have been hurt by them. But I am safe. I am safe now and something is protecting me from harm._

 _And then I hear it—a voice, a glorious voice._

 _I open my eyes to see a thick layer of mist gathering at my feet, gradually spreading down a corridor. A path. I suddenly feel cold but the voice is calling to me, coaxing me with its rich tones and redolent phrases._

 _I am then being pulled forward by the mist. The call is undeniable. Irresistible. I have to follow it. I should feel nervous, but I do not, not when the shroud of mist carries such a beautiful voice in its wake._

 _I am possessed, both body and soul._

 _I seem to glide through the dark hallways, like one of the shadows, just another ghost among ghosts. The men and women around me are mere blurs to the eye—they move so quickly compared to me. I hardly notice the large crowd of men with expensive cigars, the smoke from which wafts my way. I barely notice my co-stars rushing to their positions. I do not notice my beautiful gown, slowly peeling away to reveal a modest black dress beneath it, the small flakes floating away behind me like leaves upon the breeze._

 _A curtain soon appears in front of me and I know it is time. Time for what? The mist envelopes me and whispers in my ear. It is calming._

 _Another voice announces my name and commands that I step forward. I obey and when I step forward, the mist follows me. My feet come into contact with a hard surface. A stage? A platform. My eyes search the space beyond and see the faces of many people, blurred, yet expectant. I steady myself as I begin to hear music—sombre strings, crying a tale of woe. I swallow and prepare myself for my opening note... and nothing comes out. My hand flies to my throat, beguiled as to why my voice has failed me. I panic when all but a squeak escapes my mouth. The orchestra continues without realising my fault._

 _Fear strikes me and I begin to tremble as the mist pushes me forward and forward and forward. I struggle, but I am no match for its strength. My shouts are silenced and I suddenly realise that I am helpless. I am voiceless. But why?_

 _My hand rubs my throat as a strange pain starts to grow inside. I try to speak, but I cannot. Why? I can barely see the audience now. The light is so bright and the mist, now more like a fog, has risen and spread down into the auditorium._

 _The pain_ _intensifies in my throat, so much so that I am gasping for the relief which never comes. My hand is then roughly yanked downwards and away from my neck. It disappears beneath the fog and, for a moment, my breath catches._

 _I cannot see anything. I cannot hear anything. I am terrified._

 _And then I feel it—the restricting feeling surrounding my hands, and I realise that I cannot separate them. I raise them and I want to scream when I see that they are bound tightly with thick rope._

 _The pain in my throat suddenly disappears, but is replaced by something just as uncomfortably constricting._

 _A noose is around my neck._

 _I move my head and I am able to feel the rope rubbing against my skin. Once more I try to scream, my cries of help silenced by the tightening of the rope._

 _My body rises above the stage slightly and I am left suspended with only a stool beneath my feet. It is the only thing now stopping the noose from claiming me._

 _As my feet struggle to find stability on the small stool, the fog below me begins to clear. Slowly, my eyes adjust and I am able to see that the auditorium is empty. Empty, that is, save from one thing._

 _A looming figure, cloaked in black, stands at the front of the stage. I can see its piercing eyes glaring at me and the sight alone nearly makes my heart stop._

 _This is surely death coming for me, but a flash of white contradicts my assumption. My eyes widen and a relieved smile breaks out on my trembling face._

 _Erik!_

 _I attempt to shout, to call out to him, but there is no hope. The noose is too tight. In my frustration, I wriggle, but my movements only make me lose my precarious balance on the stool._

 _I very nearly topple over._

 _I blink, and Erik is gone._

 _Frantically, my eyes shift from side to side until I finally spot him again. He now stands on the stage with me, but he is far away. Why is he so far away? My heart pounds._

 _Thump. Thump. Thump._

 _I try to mouth cries of help in his direction, but it is no use. The rope only tightens its hold around my neck and Erik only stands there and watches._

 _Thump. Thump._

 _Erik is not doing anything to help me. Why does he not do anything? Why does he just stand there? And then..._

 _Thump. Thump._

 _...And then he begins to move. Slowly at first, with precise and deliberate movements until he is standing right beside me. He stares at me before whispering, "Why?"_

 _Thump. Thump._

 _I continue to struggle and watch him reach forward towards the stool leg. I fear he will remove it, but suddenly I am no longer on the stool._

 _Thump._

 _Erik is now in my position, his neck held tightly by the rope, and I am the one standing next to him. "Why?" he asks again, and it_ _is all he says. Over and over and over again. It is all I hear when I begin to bend down._

 _Thump._

 _It is all I hear as my fingers wrap around a stool leg._

 _Thump._

 _It is the last thing I hear before I—_

A chilling scream pierced the night air and perspiration dripped down her face and neck as her chest heaved at the memory of the nightmare. Shock had propelled her body upright and Christine sat there limply, her weak arms trying their best to hold her weight up as she stared into the blackness in front of her, strands of loose hair sticking to her face.

Opening her mouth, Christine allowed the cool night air to enter her lungs. She raised a hand to her throat, rubbing it gently and wincing at vivid flashes of the memory of the noose. Betrayal had surged through that dream and she slowly laid back down, succumbing to her troubling thoughts. Very soon, she began to tremble, her fingers unable to keep still, laying upturned on her pillow, grasping for something that was not there. She pried open her strained eyes and glanced towards the moonlight shining in through a tiny gap in her curtains.

No one came to her that night. Mamma Valérius had surely not heard her in her state, her staff had all retired to their own homes besides the night nurse who most likely had drifted off into heavy slumber, and Erik... Not even Erik came to her.

The only comfort she received that night was from the knowledge that her heart was still beating.

It was the first time in many months that Christine felt completely alone and she hoped desperately that tomorrow would be brighter.


	23. Chapter 23

Upon awakening the next morning, Christine vanquished any lingering thoughts of her nightmare and almost immediately made her way to Mamma Valérius' room. The call to hear her guardian's voice again was like a fervent pounding in her head and she could no longer prolong their reunion. She had only just wrapped her hand around the handle to her room, however, when she was met with the sight of two women hurrying towards her—one of whom she recognised to be Mme Martin—with basins and cloths gathered in their hands. Christine had not managed three steps before she was practically pushed out of the way and back against the wall before the door had opened and then slammed in her face. She could do no more than stand there and gape for a moment before finally finding her resolve, dressing for the day and going downstairs to enquire about breakfast.

But it was as if she had not lived here at all. She had begun to feel like a stranger among the 'true' inhabitants of this home, these nurses, whose cold eyes would follow her every move, speculating, judging, and Christine knew they would whisper about her behind her back. Not about her age or her lack of experience, but of her character and the scandal involving le Fantôme. Having socialised with and worked alongside her fellow thespians, Christine was not adversed to gossip, but nor was she completely tolerable of it. Naïve as she was, a fool she was not. And though not party to it herself, she knew of the falsities _and_ the truths behind the Opéra's most intimate displays of debauchery.

But _rumours—_ it was all these degenerate women knew. They knew nothing of the truth surrounding herself!

And despite their attempts to restrict her interventions, they allowed her the menial task of taking up her guardian's meals. A small, insignificant task, but one that Christine devoted herself to with the utmost sincerity. Though she had been barred from entering that morning, Christine had been able to see her that very afternoon, a warm broth situated in her hands.

"Mamma?" she whispered once she walked into the room. On seeing that she was still asleep, Christine quietly walked over to the bedside table and placed the bowl and napkin down on top of it, waiting patiently for her to wake up.

Mme Martin had told her that she should be prepared for a change since the illness had taken its toll and just by looking at her, Christine knew that she had been right.

Watching for any signs of discomfort, she carefully reached down and pushed a few thick strands of hair away from her sickly face, smiling down at her now stirring features and twitching hands.

Mamma Valérius' pale eyes squinted as she tried to adjust to the sunlight streaming in through her open window. Craning her neck forward slightly, she looked at the young woman curiously, an unfamiliar glint in her eye. "Amelie? Is it time already for luncheon?"

The sound of her voice, ragged and gruff, yet still managing to retain its elderly softness, would haunt Christine to the end of her days.

Reaching for her cold hand, Christine tried not to be alarmed by the lack of recognition. "No, Mamma. It's Christine."

" _Oh_ ," she said in a single melancholy exhale, but as a smile slowly spread across her face, a small amount of vigour was restored to her and Christine could almost imagine that nothing was indeed the matter with her. With one unsteady hand, Mamma Valérius reached up and cupped her ward's cheek, lightly stroking the skin with her thumb. How beautiful she was, she thought. "My dear child. My dear Christine. When did you get here?"

"I arrived last night," she explained, smiling down at her. "I wished to see you immediately but Mme Martin insisted that I let you rest."

"Hmm, yes, Marie can be very insistent about such things," she said bitterly. "Oh, Christine, forgive me for not recognising you. I cannot see so well these days, it must be my old age."

Christine quickly caught her hand as she was about to pull it away from her. "You are not old, Mamma."

Frowning, she cast her ward a look of feigned annoyance, another smile trembling along her mouth. "Yes, I am."

A sigh escaped Christine's lips as she stared down at their joined hands. "Oh, Mamma. Why did you not tell me?"

The old woman studied her ward extensively before a deep cough claimed her, causing her body to curl inwards and shake. Alarmed, Christine stood and clutched desperately at her, running her hand up and down her convulsing back, waiting until she had calmed before returning to her sitting position.

"I have brought you some broth," Christine whispered, pointing to the bowl next to her. "Would you like me to help you at all?"

The mere look in those bloodshot eyes was enough to scorn Christine's very soul. "I may require medical attention, child, but I am _not_ an invalid. Do not talk to me as if I were one."

She lowered her head and grimaced, embarrassment and regret fuelling her actions. "I am sorry. I only meant to... I was only trying..."

"Oh, do not linger on it," Mamma Valérius lightly chided with a dismissive wave of her fingers. "I know that you meant well, but, for the love of God, do not worry so. I know that this must be difficult for you, but—"

" _What_?" she asked, almost breathless with disbelief. "How could you even say that to me? I am not the one confined to my bed. I am not the one suffering here. Why would you even consider my situation when you will not look at your own?"

Christine watched her lay back even further, her hand slowly slipping back down onto the sheets as she stared at her, her brow furrowed. "I never thought I would say this, but at this time, my dear, I believe you to be too selfless."

"And what does that mean exactly?"

"It means... It means exactly how it sounds. Child, do not worry yourself over me. You have your whole life ahead of you."

Reluctantly nodding her head, Christine turned her attention towards the bowl. "Would you still like the broth?"

A surprisingly light chuckle resonated from her throat and Christine looked back around, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Yes, but in a little while. And I will be capable of feeding myself. I would very much like to talk with you some more and..."

Those pale eyes squinted again, much like they had done when she had first stirred, and Christine saw her frail fingers slide under her left hand to draw it closer to her face. The ring. Erik's ring. No. _Her_ ring. She had quite forgotten that it had remained upon her finger. Her life now seemed to be divided into two: the days she spent with Erik, and those she spent without him, and, at that moment, they felt like two completely different worlds to her. When in one, she would forget the other.

"Hmm. My, my, my," Mamma Valérius mused as she turned and twisted the hand, trying to view the sparkling object from all angles. "It is rather extravagant, dear."

"Oh." A smirk teased her mouth as her fingers gently ran over the jewelled surface. "Yes, I suppose it is."

"Am I given to understand then that you have finally wed this mysterious man you came to me all those months ago about?"

"No, Mamma. We..." she paused suddenly, realising she was about to be trapped within another lie. "We... have not yet exchanged vows." At least _that_ was not a lie.

"Oh, thank Heavens. I was afraid that I had missed your wedding. I intend to be there by your side, when the day comes. You will look so beautiful, Christine, so very beautiful standing there next to your husband." She beamed with pride. "A vision, you will be. I can see it now and I _will_ be there, my child. I promise."

"Of course you will, Mamma," Christine replied encouragingly, masking the fear of the inevitable in her voice. "Of course you will."

"Yes, I—"

A second fit of deep coughs then cut off her words, forcing her to splutter and grip her bedsheets tightly. Having sat up quickly, she drew her knees up, covering her mouth with her hand to capture the blood.

Blood? No, no, no.

Christine whirled around until she faced the broth and all but ripped the napkin out from under it, not caring as the bowl fell and shattered against the floor, hot liquid and sharp pieces of china splashing onto her dress. Swallowing her fear, she quickly turned back towards Mamma Valérius only to see little red flecks on her sleeve, the colour slowly spreading on her white gown.

"No, no," Christine mumbled, all but yanking the woman's arm away from her mouth. "Here, Mamma, here. Use this." She cradled the back of her guardian's head whilst giving her the napkin, eyeing her all the while.

Christine stood there for a few moments, staring aimlessly, as Mamma Valérius' wheezy breathing took hold of her, causing more blood to spill from her mouth. It wasn't until Christine heard the floor creak beneath her feet that she realised that she had started to back away. The metallic aroma had now filled the air, the pungent smell filling her nose and making her head spin. In an attempt to block out the smell, Christine brought her arm up to her face only for her cheek to be met with something wet. Her eyes widened and she pulled her arm back enough to see a few specks of blood. Mamma's blood. With her chest heaving, her hand fiercely flew to her face, rubbing at it, and she felt her stomach churn as she pulled her fingers away to reveal more blood on her palm.

A small, strangled cry escaped her mouth before she screamed for help.

Mme Rousseau, the woman whom Mamma Valérius had mistaken Christine for, suddenly burst into the room with vigorous determination and stopped in her tracks at the scene before her. "What is it, Mademoiselle— _oh_!" she exclaimed, seeing her patient spluttering from across the room, before rushing over and supporting her body. "Marie!" she called out. "Bring towels and the sedatives! Lord above..." Christine merely continued her steady retreat towards the open door as she watched Mme Rousseau tend to her guardian as she could not. "Mademoiselle, I suggest you clean yourself up and leave us to care for her." When she did not move, Mme Rousseau turned her head towards her and cried, "Go on, girl! Get! Ah, Marie, will you put those supplies down there?"

Christine's back hit the door frame and she breathed deeply, staring at the scene in horror as the two women fluttered about manically. "I'm sorry," she whispered, knowing very well that no one heard her. "Mamma... I am sorry."

She took one last look before running back to her bedchamber, mumbling the apology repeatedly. Slamming the door behind her, Christine pressed her back up against it as she felt her legs begin to weaken. She allowed her body to gradually slide to the floor in a pathetic heap, her arms laying limply at her sides as she glared at the smeared blood.

"Christine Daaé," she sobbed to herself. "What a coward you've become."

o0o

Without his beloved, it all seemed so meaningless, so trivial. When she smiled, she would not only light up a room, she would also lighten his heart. That single inconsequential gesture; that quiver at the side of her gentile mouth, was all it took to chase away the darkness of his mind. But without her, he could feel it creeping back to him, itching at his back like a rash he could not escape.

Without company, without her smiles, without her, the blackness would tease him as it once had. He tried so very hard to ignore its taunts, its painful reminders of the past, but the silence was deafening. And so he would shut down his defences, keeping the memory of her alive in his head when he would compose and speak to her, as if she were really in the room with him.

But even as the organ infiltrated the empty air with its loud discourse, Erik could still hear the echo of his beloved's voice drifting down the halls. How long had it been since she left him now? A day? A week? Time had seemed to stop, to lose all meaning, and Erik wasted the hours away in bitter solitude, thinking only of her.

He could still feel her presence here, lurking in the corridors, in his music and in his heart. Nothing had yet succeeded in drowning her out of his senses. Nothing, until the siren's call had rung through the walls and had forced him out of his subdued state.

Slinking away from the organ, which he had hardly left since her departure, Erik went to meet the intruder today, poised and ready. To his annoyance, he was regrettably made to put away his noose at the sound of three weary words, "Good morning, Erik."

The Daroga pushed his way past his grumbling acquaintance and stared in bemused disgust at the state of his surroundings. The air was damp, lending a staleness to the atmosphere, and on the ground lay discarded boxes and sheets of paper. He had not seen his friend in such a disorganised state since... a time he wished to forget.

Treading carefully through the papers—which on closer inspection proved to be unfinished compositions—and finding himself a spot to perch upon, Nadir folded his arms, surveying the mess with an incredulous eye. "I see you have been keeping yourself busy."

Ignoring his quip, Erik brushed past him and returned to his place at the organ, his demeanour brooding and his shoulders hunched. "People will become suspicious if you keep coming down here, old man," he muttered as he agitatedly ran his fingertips over the keys, briefly wondering whether he should press down and let their blaring cries drown out the bothersome drones of the Persian.

"Someone has to check up on you," he called over to him.

"I am still alive and I am breathing and you can leave now," Erik snapped, whirling around to face the other man with a rage flaring in his black eyes. "You could have been followed. Did you even stop to comprehend that?"

"You know that I am able to travel at my own discretion," Nadir said as he watched Erik rise to his feet. "I am a cautious man, but there has been no suspicious activity of that nature. A year has almost passed, after all. People are starting to forget."

"It will never be over," Erik mumbled, bracing himself against the wall. "It is only a matter of time."

Throughout the years, Nadir had learnt to ignore Erik's more cryptic musings for he would never receive an answer dare he ask what they meant. Glancing about the room instead, he suddenly noted the absence of a light soprano voice. "Where is Mademoiselle Daaé?" he asked, getting to his feet and peering down a nearby, but seemingly empty, hallway.

"Gone," Erik explained almost immediately and since he kept his gaze trained to the uneven textures of the wall, he did not see the look of utter surprise spread across Nadir's face. "She is staying with her surrogate mother for the time being."

Running a hand through his greying hair, Nadir released a huff and found himself staring at the rigid black-clad back in disbelief. "I am impressed you allowed her to leave," and truly, he was for he had never known Erik to completely relinquish his grip on something once he had claimed it as his own. It was not in his strange nature to be so... merciful. "What has changed that you would allow her to live elsewhere?"

"That is none of your business," Erik growled, making Nadir wonder what the cause of his sudden change was. What exactly had transpired between them? "Besides, I am capable of living apart from her," he muttered before pushing himself away from the wall and staring at the ground beneath him, almost wishing it would open up and swallow him whole.

"So it would seem," Nadir replied dryly.

He would have been content with that answer; after all, it was a miracle that the girl had managed to obtain her freedom. But he knew his friend, he knew of his weakness when it came to the girl, and of his reluctance to acknowledge it. Erik's lies spoke volumes, as did his current living conditions. Nadir did not know what it was, but something did not appear right... and then he spotted it—that familiar little case, whose edge was poking so innocently out from underneath an empty leather binder.

Like a bird in flight, Nadir flew over to the object, his head tilting in dreaded curiosity as his dark wings swept aside the folder. "Erik." His words came out as a hoarse whisper, his throat struggling as fear began to constrict it. "Please tell me that this is not what I think it is. You cannot be using... not again."

Erik did not need to see what it was that Nadir was referring to, but he turned anyway, his limbs moving solemnly, looking as though they were manoeuvring through deep water rather than air. "No," he said, much to Nadir's relief, "but the temptation is greater every day she is not here."

"Why do you still have it? Do you not remember what happened the last time?"

"Of course I do," Erik snapped, his mind raging against the memories of his withdrawal as though a strong current was sweeping him away. "It isn't something that I would like to repeat."

"If you are not taking it again then why do you even still have it?"

A shrug rolled off his shoulders. "A reminder, perhaps, not to tempt fate."

"Do you wish for me to take—"

"No!" he cried, a little too passionately for Nadir's liking. "No, it is better if it stays here. I know where it is, that way. But _she_ must never know. I cannot have her finding out. It would be too much for her. Oh, I have led her to believe that she is safe from harm with me, but that is far from the truth! It was dangerous for her to live down here, just as it is still dangerous for _me_. It had been the safest place for us, but Christine is unaware of the dangers I now face by staying here. It is better that she is living elsewhere. Yes, much better."

"Dangers?" Rising from his crouching position, Nadir felt a chill run down his spine at Erik's rambles. "What are you not telling me, my friend? This is not just about the dangers _you_ pose to her, is it?"

"You have wondered why I am so suddenly concerned with your being followed," he said, sounding distant, as if lost in a daydream, but when he turned his mask towards Nadir, he saw the colour drain from his face. "Someone has been trying to get through my defences."


	24. Chapter 24

Nearly a fortnight had passed since Christine's arrival and she still felt dreadfully uneasy. Her time was filled with fretting over her guardian. At every possible interval, she attempted to help in any way that she could, but those nurses were terribly determined not to let her intervene.

Feeling helpless, Christine took to residing in her bedchamber, pacing the floor and counting the seconds until she could be deemed useful again. What added to the trouble in her heart was that she had not seen Erik since her departure and, with no letters from him or any way of contacting him, she had begun to worry. The longing to be in his arms again, to feel loved, to know that she did not have to go through this alone, was slowly consuming her. His strength was what she needed now more than anything.

She wanted to do all that she could to help, but she was afraid that her best would not be good enough. Losing her father so young was a trauma that Christine had never recovered from, so much so that it had made her wary of forming attachments to others. So, to find out that her sole guardian was wasting away under the control of the same deadly disease was utterly unbearable. If Mamma Valérius were to die, she thought, then it would surely kill her too. She did not know whether she could live through the heartache again of being the one to survive whilst her loved ones were laid to rest.

As the candles shed a hazy fog in her room, Christine stood still, staring at the dull ebb of light. The flames created vast shadows on the walls and floor and, with the glisten of tears in her eyes, the room held a surreal glow, like a sunset captured in oil. The dull whites and browns of the room were highlighted by the fire as the pale luminance of moonlight seeped through the glass doors which lead out onto a small balcony.

Turning, Christine had just pulled back the soft covers on her bed when all of a sudden her body was hit by a fierce gust of wind. The icy nip from the winter air stung her skin as her hair and nightgown billowed out in front of her. Spinning around on the spot, she was bewildered to notice that the balcony doors had been blown open, the drapes now elegantly suspended in mid-air by the strong breeze. Suspecting that the small latch must have come undone sometime during the course of the evening, she thought no more of it and walked against the current until she was able to close the doors.

With her hands behind her clutching onto the handle, Christine watched as the moonlight cascaded through the glass, bleeding across the floor like spilled ink. The wind—she sighed in irritation as she looked about the room—had extinguished all but three candles.

She lingered where she was for a few more moments, staring into the open flames, wondering how they had been able to go untouched by the breeze. But that was when she realised that she was not just looking at several flames, but a single flame—a single flame that was illuminating a pair of eyes in the darkness. Eyes that were staring at her.

A suffocated gasp left her mouth as she fell against the closed doors with a small thud, but it was the voice which came from the darkness, that oh-so familiar voice, which released the tension from her taut body.

" _Hush_ , _my love_ _..._ "

The whisper came in one tantalising breath as Erik's eyes, alight with the pain of their separation, began to edge closer into the moonlight.

"Oh, God," she sobbed, rushing into his open arms, her body colliding with his thin frame in an instant. Her arms were then filled with him, and she placed her ear over his heart, hearing its rhythmic, melodic beat.

Too long had she been without him, too long had she been in this world.

Breathing in his familiar scent and needing to feel him against her, Christine shuffled even closer, her hands quivering as they splayed across his back in tender devotion. She rested her forehead on his soft cravat, her lips pressed to the material as she murmured into the layers of barring fabric, as though in prayer. "I waited for you," she then mumbled directly to him. "Why did you not come sooner?"

The very moment she had touched him, Erik had felt his heart warm. He had been starved of her and he greedily tightened his grip, his fingers travelling upwards to entwine themselves in her wind-swept hair. "There were several matters that needed my attention, but how I have missed having you in my arms."

"Matters... dare I ask what they are?" When she did not receive a reply, she immediately banished the thought from her mind and tried to focus on the wonderful security his embrace provided. "It is strange," she then said, raising her head to look at him, believing this moment to be the first and only time that she was glad to see the familiar glint of his mask.

"What is?" he asked, sliding a finger down her rosy cheek.

"I almost thought that you had forgotten me."

His lips hesitated before brushing against her silken forehead, her skin warming at the memory of his touch. "Do not say such a thing," he murmured against her.

She smiled as she felt one of his hands slide from her back and up the length of her arm, until his fingers were ever so lightly tilting her chin up to meet his intense stare. His thumb moved to trace over her mouth, knowing that he should refrain, but after having so long been denied even the simplest of touches, knowing now that his beloved would offer them freely was a dangerously addictive thought. He hoped that he would be granted that familiarity for the remainder of his days and so, breathlessly, asked, "May I kiss you?"

All it took was the plain nodding of her head for his lips to press against hers and his hand to slide into her hair as he savoured the feeling of completeness. She quietly whimpered into his mouth, clutching at him desperately in an attempt to press herself closer, no longer fighting the impossible urge to melt into him.

Sighing as he boldly deepened the kiss, Christine silently cursed the cold exterior of the mask and the way it bit into her skin. In a rash decision, she swiftly allowed one of her hands to glide around his side and up his chest towards her goal, but no sooner had her fingers edged themselves under the rim than his head was thrown back in fear.

With wild eyes, he stared at her, dreading the humiliation and depravation which were surely to follow, but all she did was retract her fingers slowly.

He had reacted like a beaten dog, and yet here he stood before her, as though he would truly have allowed her to hurt him. What had she been thinking? To think that he would have allowed her such a spontaneous act... "I wish," she whispered as she rested her forehead on his chest, cradling her hands between their bodies. "I wish that you would allow me to understand what you have been through." _I wish that you would just let me love you._

Feeling his heart calm under her submissive posture, he thought himself the fool to think that she would harm him. Relaxing into her, he closed his eyes. "One day, perhaps."

Though not a definite promise, it was the most encouragement that she had received, and she was grateful for it. "Thank you."

Tears stung in his eyes as he pulled her closer to him, tentatively wrapping his arms about her frame. "You are too good to me."

His words bared a bitter resemblance to the ones her guardian had spoken to her. She had called her 'selfless', and how wrong they both were.

"No," she protested. "I am not good."

"Oh, but you are!" he insisted. "You are so very kind and patient and—"

"No," she interrupted, pulling away from his embrace. "I am not good and I am not selfless. I am really rather selfish! Why am I the only one who sees this?"

He frowned and looked down at his now empty hands, briefly wondering if he had done anything to upset her. "Is something troubling you?" he asked cautiously.

"No, why?"

" _Christine_."

"Nothing is wrong, Erik," she snapped.

Exasperated by her denial, he simply sighed and gazed at her. "Have I offended you in any way? If I have, then please know that it was unintentional and that I apologise—"

"No, no," she reassured him wearily. "You have done nothing wrong. Let us... let us talk of other things," she offered with a cheery disposition which felt more forced than anything.

"If that is what you want," he said incredulously.

"It is," she replied, smiling thinly as she stepped closer to him. "What has kept your mind occupied during this time, Erik? A composition? Oh, do tell me how you have fared."

"I have been in agony, utter agony," he grumbled, reaching for her hand once more, wishing to feel her softness, her comforting warmth surrounding him. "The silence has been unbearable."

"What about your music?"

"A poor substitute."

Surprisingly, she chuckled. "You are surely exaggerating, no?"

"Perhaps I am, perhaps I am not." Though he remained aloof, Erik would not divulge what he had learnt in the past fortnight. He would not tell her of the dangers she could now face if she returned. "What of you, my love?"

"Well, I received some news from Meg Giry. I do so miss her. It will be wonderful when she comes to visit me, but unfortunately she is too preoccupied to even visit her friend," she told him, chuckling in her mock irritation. "She wrote to me about this season's productions and, of course, the wedding. They will not be wed until sometime in the following year but she states that she simply cannot wait that long. A long engagement does not suit her, I think."

Not knowing how to reply to this information, he stiffly nodded. "Have you... settled in well, then?"

Christine cast a glance towards the door before peering down at their entwined hands. "If I am honest, I do not know how to answer that question."

"How do you mean?"

"I do not deny that I have missed living like this, but the transition from one to the other has not yet taken its toll. I am still finding it strange getting used to all these unwritten rules." She hung her head. "It is more embarrassing than anything. But it is rather queer, is it not? How can a handful of months spent hidden away in the bowels of the Opéra eradicate my comfort of this world, and everything I have learnt from it? I had forgotten just how _big_ the world was," she added gravelly.

"Do you... regret your decision?"

"No, I... I only wish I had known..." Her voice fell to a whisper as her words faded into a silence. Looking to the side, she drew away from him, wrapping her arms around her body.

"Are you all right?" Concerned, Erik attempted to regain her straining attention. A frown appeared upon his already marred forehead as he considered her behaviour. "Do you have a chill? Would you prefer to sit by the fire?"

"No, I am quite warm," she assured him.

"Are you certain? If you are then you must—"

"I am perfectly fine!"

"Something _is_ bothering you," he murmured, reaching for her. "Tell me what it is."

"Nothing is bothering me," she continued, moving out of his reach, forcing herself not to look into his eyes and see the hurt within them. "I am fine."

Before she was able to get a hold of her senses, a cold tear ran down her face and, though ineffective, she turned to shield it.

"Christine? You are crying."

In a flurry of cotton, she strode over to her vanity and descended onto its seat, one hand grasping the edge while the other came down to grip her knee. As she stared at her trembling self, she watched Erik's reflection hesitate before sitting down in the armchair by the fire.

His fingers mirrored Christine's as they curled around his knee in anticipation. Why did she not speak? What had happened this past week to drive her into such a state of hysterics? He loathed to see her like this and his heart pounded in retaliation. Leaning forward, he stared at her vulnerable position and bowed his head. "Christine, you are upset," he said, his tones soft and soothing, a lilting reminder of his protectiveness. "Tell me what troubles you."

Despite feeling uncomfortable, Christine knew that she desperately needed to confide in someone. Taking a slow, deep breath, she readied herself before turning around to face him.

"I was not informed of this until I had arrived," she began, a tremble reverberating around her body like a sprung coil. "Mamma was merely trying to spare me the distress, I suppose, but she should have written to me. She knew she should have, and yet she did nothing. Once I arrived, I was informed by Madame Martin, who was nothing more than a stranger in my eyes, about Mamma's health. The women in this household, Erik, are not servants. They are carers." A sniffle consumed her and she forced a smile to her mouth. "Do forgive me, I cannot even seem to speak the words." As soon as she had laughed nervously, her face had donned a blank expression. "She is dying, Erik, and I cannot do anything to help her. Oh, I _despise_ this, this feeling of helplessness, and, to make matters worse, I cannot help thinking that history is repeating itself, for, you see... she has consumption."

"Your father," he murmured quietly, suddenly understanding her lost plight. "You are not to blame. This is not your fault."

"But what if it is? Two members of my family contracting the same fatal illness? People are not this unlucky."

Panic struck him at the look of utter grievance on her beautiful face. "Christine, Christine, I know that this must be difficult for you—"

" _Difficult_?" she snarled, raising her head sharply to stare at him. "Why does everyone keep saying that? You cannot... You cannot _possibly_ understand what this must be like for me. I was so very young when Papa died and I did not fully understand what was happening to him. I masked my grief by not succumbing to it, but by doing this I allowed it to consume me... and when you entered my life, you were able to distract me from that grief. I have run from these emotions for far too long and now that I am faced with them again, I willingly give in to them.

"I have chosen to confide in you, Erik," she continued, still avoiding his gaze. "I hope you realise what that means. We are caught, you see, in an endless cycle. Sometimes, we cannot even speak without upsetting one another and then our forgiveness is bought through distraction. These antics have worked in the past, but I am telling you, do _not_ try to do it from now on. Do you understand what I am trying to say? I want you with me. I want you to _talk_ to me, Erik. Do not run as I have, that is all I ask." She lifted her heavy eyes to meet his finally. "The one thing I need from you right now is support, but I do not wish for you to distract me from my grief. As strange as it sounds, I _need_ this."

Erik leaned forward in his seat in thought. Behind the mask, his features twisted into an expression of empathic longing. His dear girl, his love... "Oh, Christine," he whispered. "I _do_ want you to feel as though you can talk to me about anything! I do! But _why_ would you do this to yourself?"

She smiled sadly at him, whispering a solemn, "I did not think you would understand."

"But," he persisted, "to torment yourself, to react like this... Christine, you are allowing your guilt to control you."

"I did not say a word about my guilt!" she all but screamed at him, caution now thrown to the wind as she glared at him, caring not one whit if their conversation had been overheard. "You do not understand. It is not like how it was before. _Now_ , I am able to make a difference... only... only I cannot."

"Why can you not?"

"I am selfish, the most selfish person I know." Her actions and words were becoming erratic now and Erik silently watched her distress unfold, much to his own hatred of the sight. "You are right, my guilt _is_ controlling me. But, I want it to control me. I _need_ to suffer for the way I have treated her."

"Christine, what are you—"

"I ran from her!" she cried, covering her face with claw-like fingers as if her intentions were to draw the very skin from her face. "Mamma was... she was laying there, coughing blood, and I tried to help, I really did, but the blood... it was _everywhere._ It was on my clothes and on my skin— _oh_! I can still remember the smell of it. Putrid and metallic. She reminded me so much of Papa, but I thought... I thought that after you had returned to me wounded that night, that I would have been able to handle it. I wanted to be strong for her, but it was too much for me to bear and so I ran. I ran and I did not look back. Do you now see, Erik? I want to make a difference, but I couldn't help my actions. Those women despise me, I just know it. But... but I despise them, too. I despise them for being able to do what I cannot yet bring myself to do. Oh, Erik! To be on the verge of losing another. I... I can't..."

Her words were lost in a strangled sob and as she placed one hand over her chest, she felt just how quickly her heart was pounding. No longer able to stand her suffering, Erik went to her and knelt down on the floor.

"Christine," he said frantically as he saw horrid tears wet her flushed cheeks. Oh, how he hated them! "My love, please. Please, I do not know what to do. What should I do? Tell me what to do."

"Hold me," she begged, clutching fiercely at his shirt as she, too, slid down onto the floor. "Just... hold me."

Her little hands gripped his lapels, his shoulders, his shirt—any part of him that was within her reach. She felt desperate for the contact, like a new-born searching and pawing for its mother's warmth, and was overwhelmed when he gathered her in his arms. She fed on his strength as she turned her head and sobbed a muffled series of apologies and gratifications into his chest.

His arms merely tightened around her quivering body. "What are you apologising for?"

When she began to speak, Erik could barely recognise her voice. Those golden tones had vanished and in their place lay something ghastly and weak. She was a shadow of herself. "Do you think that God is punishing me?"

"Punishing you?" he asked, staring out into the night. "Only those who are deserving are punished. Myself, for example. He gave me this face, it was in His plan. You know very well that I have rejected Him, but I will tell you this, Christine. He would not punish an innocent such as yourself."

"Do you think so?" she asked, tilting her head up to gaze at him in childish wonder.

"I do," he whispered back, his fingers reaching down to stroke her hair. "Your heart is already heavy with the burden of caring for me. Do not give it more grief."

Foregoing her attempts at contradiction, she slowly reached up and cupped his masked cheek. "I do love you so," she murmured through placid fatigue, smiling as he snuck his fingers under her hand, bringing his head around to intimately kiss her open palm. "Will you stay with me?" With her eyelids fluttering shut, her body wanted nothing else at that moment than to be claimed by dreams. "Will you stay until I fall asleep?"

A contented sigh fled her parted mouth as the light pressure of his lips pressed against her forehead. "If that is what you wish."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise."


	25. Chapter 25

Though utterly at the mercy of these nurses, Christine was determined not to let her inner conflict show. Vulnerability was not something she wished to portray to them, given their scruples and strong will and the lies which they thought surrounded her. Secretly, Christine longed to have their cold resolve, longed to not let the ever nearing hand of death trouble her. But only when she was alone in the confinements of her room was she able to release her pent up frustration and sorrow. Some nights, she would weep endlessly and silently until sleep claimed her. Other nights, she would lay rigidly on the bed, unable to cry, unable to sleep, unable to think. Erik's visits managed to bring her solace, if only for a little while, but she was craving his presence more and more these days and she was steadily becoming reluctant to release him from her arms and into that of the night's.

Through heavy persistence, however, she was able to gain the trust of her guardian's carers and over the course of the next week, she was making herself more useful. Despite their feeble complaints, Christine lumbered through the household with unmatched resolute, cleaning and attending to Mamma Valérius' needs. She was slowly proving herself worthy of Mamma's care and though proud of it, Christine was grateful that no one had noticed her delicate nerves. She was getting better at hiding them.

Whilst helping Mamma Valérius with her breakfast one day, Christine had been informed of a visitor waiting downstairs. Though unwilling to part with her guardian, Mme Rousseau had explained that the visitor had in fact come to see _her_ and not her guardian, and so Christine had felt obliged to play the righteous hostess. Not wishing to keep whomever it was waiting, Christine passed the bowl to Mme Rousseau and kissed Mamma Valérius' warm forehead before making her way down the stairs.

As dark dress skirts came into view, Christine felt a smile spread across her face, her heart warming in instant recognition. "Madame Giry!" she exclaimed happily, rushing over to meet the older woman who also bared a friendly smile. "Oh, how good it is to see you again."

"My dear, it has been too long," she said, regarding Christine's appearance with speculative curiosity. As the seasons changed, so had her beauty.

"It certainly has," Christine agreed, indicating for her to sit down. Once both women had taken their places, she asked, "Shall I ring for tea, Madame?"

Shaking her head, Mme Giry carefully re-positioned her body onto the settee, sighing at the comforting softness beneath her. The grandeur of the Valérius household far exceeded that of her own quaint little flat and though she had never sat upon something quite as welcoming as the cushion beneath her, she knew, from the very second that she walked through the door, that something was amiss here. The air was colder, and something sinister lurked around the next corner.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" Christine asked, folding her hands in her lap.

"I simply wanted to see how you were settling in," she replied before leaning forward, the wrinkles on her brow more evident in the light. "How are you faring, my dear?"

The smile on Christine's face disappeared. "You have no doubt heard of Mamma's condition."

"I have," Mme Giry replied softly. "Meg showed me your letter. I am dreadfully sorry for you."

"I should not be the one for whom people feel sorry," she grumbled before remembering herself. "But what of your health, Madame? Meg has not spoken much about you, though I do not blame her. She seems preoccupied with the Baron as of late. Is all well at the Opéra?"

"There is nothing to tell," she said simply, waving a slender hand in the air with the grace befitting the great soloist that she was. "Life has returned to normal, almost. Everything is a matter of routine now and work is underway for the new season. Come spring, there will be new talent arriving on our doorstep, young talent, and I fear that I am growing older with every new face." She chuckled but the humour in her voice soon vanished as a denied truth lingered with her. Tilting her head to the side, she asked the question that had been burning in her mind ever since she had left the comfort of her own home. "How is _he_?"

Christine did not need to ask to whom Mme Giry was referring and so she merely smiled at her fondly with a quirk of her eyebrow. "He is as well as he can be, though we do not see one another quite so often."

"He... does not come to check on you, then?" she asked, a little too curious for her own good.

A quick flash of sunlight strolling in through the windows, however, refocused the woman's attention to the little object perching quite innocently on Christine's finger. Mme Giry studied the ring quietly, her ageing features remaining neutral as her mind filtered through endless streams of questions.

"You are happy with him," she said finally, her gaze flickering up to the youth's timid smile.

"Yes."

"And you are in love with him?" she asked, not quite believing the ardent answer which followed almost immediately.

"You are surprised," Christine observed, her face crest-fallen.

Sighing, Mme Giry shifted in her seat once more before slowly rising to her feet. Walking to the window, she gripped the shawl which covered her slim body. "I _am_ surprised," she confirmed as she watched the hustle of Parisian life pass by. "Not in my wildest dreams had I ever expected this outcome. It did not seem possible. I only hope you know what you are doing."

A mixture of annoyance and defiance radiated from Christine and soon she rose to stand behind the ballet mistress. "I know what I am doing," she insisted firmly, her tone as stern as though she were the true teacher here. "I know my own mind, and I do not appreciate your views on the matter. I know very well your opinion of our match and, while it is not the most conventional, there is no doubt over my affections. Please do not mistake them for ignorance."

"I did not mean to imply anything," she said wearily, wondering how she would ever be able to explain her reasoning. "I have good cause to worry about you, just as I have cause to worry _for_ you. The man is a—"

"You needn't worry," Christine quickly interrupted, not wishing to hear what insults she would come to justify in her presence. "I appreciate your concern," she continued, now calmer, "but I am in no danger." The sounds of the busy streets filled the silence between the two ladies and in the window's reflection, Christine could see agitation begin to flicker in those cold blue eyes. "Is anything the matter, Madame? I apologise if I offended you. My time with Erik has certainly had a toll on my ability to hold my tongue," she said, smiling at her jest before studying the Madame's expression in concern. "I _have_ _not_ offended, have I?" she asked again, timidly.

Saying nothing, the older woman instead whirled around on the spot and lightly grasped Christine's arms. "Oh, my dear, you have not. I am sorry, but I must confess, your settling in was not the true reason for my visitation." Gently guiding them back towards the settee, Mme Giry cast a suspicious glance towards the parlour door. "There is something pressing I must speak to you about. We will not be disturbed in here, I trust?"

Christine frowned, wary of the way her arm was still being held by desperate fingers. "No, we shan't be disturbed. Madame, please say what you have come here to say for, I confess, I am at a loss."

"Yes, I must tell you now." Finally releasing the young woman's arm, Mme Giry used her now free hand to smooth out her skirts, her next words nearly causing Christine to take a turn. "I am here because of the Vicomte. He wishes to see you."

The betraying way Christine's pulse started to thud violently told her that her heart had never forgotten him. As her mind conjured up his face from fragments of memories, her mood gave way to sullen thoughts and all colour left her cheeks.

"I think it would be best if you were to admit him, and soon," Mme Giry advised. "All these months of not knowing whether you suffered as he did; he is miserable, Christine, but he has heard of your current living arrangements and wants desperately to see you. I had to know," she added, "I had to know whether you were still being closely watched by _him_. But here you are alone—a perfect rendezvous point for a reconciliation."

As the Madame spoke in cheerful yet cautious tones, Christine's mind was reeling, the air around her suddenly feeling stagnant, as if it could close around her at any moment, suffocating her—and how she wished it would! "You spoke to him?" she asked slowly, quietly seething. " _Why_ would you do that, Madame? I had explained to him my position... I-I thought he understood."

Mme Giry's brow furrowed, furthering her stress spawned wrinkles. "I thought you would be happy, dear, to have the chance to see him again and—"

"Happy?" she snapped despairingly, keeping her voice low, lest an inquisitive ear be pressed up against the door. "What reason have I to be happy?"

" _I cannot leave him like this_ , _Raoul_ ," the memory of her once hapless-self flickered in her mind. " _You are free now_. _Erik_ _has set you free_! _Do you not see what he has done for you_? _For us! Please_ , _please go now and be free before I change my mind and flee with you_."

" _Christine._ " His voice _,_ his youthful spirit _,_ was now but a fading sound, like the distant tolling of a church bell _._ " _I implore you_ , _come with me_! _We shall marry and we can forget all of this_. _He has let you go too_! _Why do you insist on returning to him_?"

" _Raoul_ , _please do not make this any harder for me. This is something I must do. I love you_ , _but I cannot leave him like this_ , _not after I have promised him—_ "

" _But you have promised me_!"

"After all this time," Christine whispered, her eyes shimmering with tears which would not fall, "he still wishes to see me? And after the way I have treated him... _Why_?"

"I think that is a question better suited for the Vicomte himself," Mme Giry pressed, offering her a comforting pat on her hand.

"He should not want to see me," she mumbled soberly. "I should not _let_ him see me."

"You must make your peace with him," Mme Giry pleaded, sensing the girl's growing anxieties, "so that you can both move on with your lives, if that be the case."

Though the mere thought of being in the same room with him again made her fingers twitch in unrest, she knew that the decision had already been made in her mind. If she truly wanted to spend the remainder of her life in another's arms, then she had to do the very same thing which she had been telling Erik to do. She needed to confront the ghosts of her past.

"You must tell him nothing of Erik," Christine insisted.

"Are you then agreeing to a visitation?"

Sighing, she nodded slowly, her hand fiddling with the ring on her finger as the arrangements were made.

o0o

Later that night, Christine paced the floor of her bedchamber, consumed by the reality of her earlier decision. The glass doors remained open, beckoning the cool night air and its promises into the room, but Christine did not pay them much attention. The prospect of facing Raoul again had almost set her into a frenzy. She knew, however, in her heart that Mme Giry had been right and that she must make her peace with him. Her time with Raoul was... blurry now, and she now tried desperately to recall his smiles, his sweetness, his boyish charms. It had been too long since she had thought of him, let alone seen him. She wondered if he had changed, though secretly she wished he hadn't. The image of a friend and protector in her mind was enough to want to preserve.

The day after tomorrow. That was the date they had settled on.

Soon, he would enter her life again and she would make her peace and then that would be that.

So caught up in her thoughts was Christine that she did not even sense another's presence in the room, not until his arms had enveloped her from behind, his warm cloak covering both of their bodies.

Relaxing into his hold, she smiled and closed her eyes as he gently nuzzled the side of her face. "Good evening," Erik murmured into her hair.

Turning in his hold, she threw herself into his embrace, clutching at his back with splayed fingers and burrowing her face into his neck. Breathing his scent in, she felt at ease. Yes, she thought, _this_ was where she belonged, in his arms, close to his heart.

Erik never need know about the meeting.

"How is she this night?" he asked finally, momentarily overcome by the power in her little arms.

Tensing, Christine pulled back and looked up at him, her eyes full of worry. "It is merely a matter of making her as comfortable as possible. She is injected with sedatives most days and though I do not like seeing her in such a state, it is more bearable than watching her dazed expression as she has one of her fits. Time is not on her side, but what else can I do?"

Peering down at the woman in his arms, Erik felt his strength return to him, a powerful urge to protect her, to help her, building within his pitiful heart. If only she would let him. "There may be something," he whispered to himself.

"What?" Christine asked eagerly, startled at this revelation. "Erik, if there is something you know, if there is anything you know that will help her, please tell me. If it can ease her suffering, please."

Debating on whether or not he should reveal to her his secret was only a matter of looking into her eyes, which were so full of hope that he felt it was his duty to tell her. "I have a... tonic," he explained carefully. "It would be painless and quick. She would not feel anything, only as though she were slipping into a restful sleep."

"A tonic," Christine muttered, recalling his words from so long ago. He had once called that little vial 'a tonic', but what he had actually meant was, " _Poison_. You are speaking of giving her poison?" she spat. "How could even suggest such an inhumane thing?"

"It is quite the opposite!" he insisted, even as she pried herself from his arms to stride angrily over to the balcony, leaning against the frame with heavy limbs. "It would be in her aid! Have you not listened to what I have said?"

"I have," she replied, breathing in the breeze which soothed her raging cheeks, "but I refuse to listen to you anymore. You suggest the unthinkable."

"It is not unthinkable," he protested with an air of superiority which left Christine wondering how he could have known about such things. "In fact, it is very much practised—"

"No—"

"Yes!"

Knowing that she would unleash the true extent of her anger if she were to look at him, she did not turn around. Shaking her head as she wrapped her arms around her frame, where his had been but a moment ago, she whispered in a strained voice, "You speak of murder."

"Is helping another in need murder?" he asked, his words landing gently into her hair as she felt the edge of his mask against her head. "Is freeing them of their pain _murder_ _?"_

"Of course it is!" she exclaimed. "How could it be anything else? Why would you try to justify it?" Clenching her jaw, her eyes pierced the night sky as she fought desperately to keep control over her quivering nerves. And, looking back, she could not have stopped herself at that second even if she had tried, though a sharp pang of regret immediately followed her words which were spoken in bitterness and nothing more. "A silly question, really, is it not? I almost forgot to whom I was speaking... Why on earth should I ask a murderer his justifications?"

Silence. It was all she heard—a deadly, undeniable silence, which twisted around her heart so viscously that she could barely trust herself to breathe. And then, "I do not ask that you forget what I am, Christine," he said in a low, penetrable voice, "but that was indeed cruel."

Digging her fingernails into her skin, she turned her head to the side and spoke over her shoulder. "I know," she said in a voice so small she could hardly recognise it as her own. "Forgive me, Erik, I did not mean to be cruel."

"I will be the willing victim to your wrath, Christine," he said softly, the gentle intonations in his speech bringing tears to her eyes. "Only, please listen to what I have to say now. I do this for _you._ Her suffering is your suffering, and I will not have you suffer. The tonic would merely take all of that away."

The cool air kissed her wet cheeks as she leaned back against him. "I have listened, but that is not to say I will agree with you. I really do not understand. You say it is painless, yet how can you be so certain?"

As she awaited his explanation, she felt the hard exterior of the mask dig into her head as he rested his forehead against her plaited hair. And then his reply came, "Because I have used it before."

A shiver ran down her spine so violently she felt as though she had been struck by lightning. "You have?"

"I was but a young man, living in Persia," he began, raising his hand to fiddle with one of her unkempt curls, and Christine realised the importance of what he was about to tell her. "I will not subject you to the details of my years there, I pray that you will never have to see, let alone _hear_ such things, but I will tell you this: It is where I met the Daroga. After his wife's passing, all he had left was his son. Yes, he had a son. I never knew his wife, but I knew the child and, by some strange occurrence, the child came to know me. He was curious, intelligent, but he was ill.

"You remind me of how the Daroga acted through the disease," he continued, sounding almost detached as a vacant look clouded over his eyes. "He could not bear to see his son in pain, just as you cannot bear to see your surrogate mother in pain. Through my travels, I knew of a tonic which would help end that pain, but the old fool did not have the stomach for it. I administered it myself and saw the child rest at ease for the very first time."

As a quivering breath left her body, Christine's hand rose up to cradle the back of Erik's head, pressing him to her as his arms wrapped around her torso. A warmth spread through her heart at the knowledge that he had finally been able to place his trust in her enough to tell her a little of his past. And though it was only a little, Christine loved him for it.

"A child should not have known such suffering," he murmured almost incoherently into her curls, memories of his own childhood flashing before his closed eyes. Erik's features twitched as he remembered the boy's face, his arms tightening around Christine to secure his place at her side. He did not wish to be ripped from the present. Not again. Not now.

"You were fond of him?" she asked after his grip had loosened, and he nodded against her, eternally thankful for her kind and reassuring touches.

"I know you must think me a monster—"

"I do not," she immediately argued, turning her head to rest her cheek against him.

A sigh was all she received as a reply to her defiance. "But what if your surrogate mother were to agree to this?" he dared to ask. "What if she truly wanted to end—"

"Don't say it," she whispered, impassioned, closing her eyes to the pain around her. " _Please_."

"Do not ignore the possibility, Christine," he continued, his strength returning. "You do not know her mind. You know not what she thinks."

"It is wrong, it is wrong," she repeated over and over again like a piece of scripture.

" _Why_?"

"Do you truly not see?" she asked, bringing her free hand up to her forehead. "Do you not believe in the sanctity of life? If it is not her time then there is little that can be done. Only God has the right to take life away! Do you see now, Erik? I can do nothing!"

"Even if that means watching her suffer? Christine, I only mean to offer aid."

"I know," she said, nodding her heavy head, "I know. But you _must_ not interfere with His planning."

"But what if she—"

"She would not—"

"Ask her," was his final say in the matter, his hold tightening around her body as he pulled her into his embrace.

Resting her head against his shoulder, she found herself agreeing to the impossible for the second time that day.

o0o

" _One day, we will escape from here_ , _leave and never look back_ ," he had exclaimed, moving closer to slide his hand into hers. _"It will be just you and me_ , _and then nothing shall stop us_."

" _It is a lovely fantasy_ , _Raoul_ ," she had replied, " _but that is all it can ever be_. _Don_ ' _t you see that_?"

" _Perhaps_ , _b_ _ut_ _what is the harm in prolonging that fantasy_? _We could pretend that there is no opera house and that we are just two people_ , _sitting side by side_ , _in a home of our own. As man and wife_."

" _Man and wife_?" A virginal blush had covered the entire length of her body. " _Do you mean what you say_?"

" _I do_..."

A light knock on her bedchamber door broke through the faded veil of her memories and pulled her back into the present. It was early morning still, but Christine had arisen long ago in order to prepare herself for the visit.

"Yes?" Christine answered as she sat at her vanity table, scrutinising her appearance. Her hair had been swept up on top of her head in an elegant display befitting a noblewoman, but her face still lacked the nourishment it needed. Pinching her cheeks until they bloomed a healthy red, she watched in the mirror as the door opened.

Amelie Rousseau entered with an incredulous look about her round face which soon had her biting the inside of her mouth to keep from showing. "You have a caller, Mademoiselle Daaé," she informed in a teasing voice which completely eradicated the need for pinching on Christine's cheeks.

Flustered and irritated at the woman's assumptions, Christine thanked her and waited until she had closed the door before standing up. No doubt this visit would be the cause of more gossip.

Dispelling those thoughts from her mind, she instead focused on the task ahead and readied herself before descending the stairs to meet her old friend.


	26. Chapter 26

Christine stood by the parlour, the open door in sight as she nervously ran her hands over the creases in her dress. How long had it been since she had laid eyes on him? How long had it been since she had spared him a thought? Her cruelty towards him would be something she would always try to atone for and she was certain that one glimpse of him would bring back the rush of unwanted emotions that had plagued her the night before. Her dreamless sleep had seen her tossing and turning, her hands clutching at her sheets and pillows in vain, trying to find some semblance of restfulness. The circles under her eyes were her burden, a dark reminder of her guilt, and it was that very same guilt that now had her fidgeting at the side of the door.

Why on earth had she agreed to this meeting in the first place? What good would it do to either of them? Perhaps, in another time, she would have welcomed him with open arms, if only things had not changed between Erik and herself— _Erik_! Immediately, she berated herself for sounding as though she regretted their union. Of course not, she _loved_ him, and she was all the more guilt-stricken that she had to remind herself of the fact.

As she toyed with the edges of her camisole sleeves, her fingers coated in a light layer of perspiration which rubbed unpleasantly against the material, she found herself delirious with the decision to leave. Christine turned on the spot and began her spontaneous desertion until the sound of a floorboard creaking—an innocent sound if ever she heard one—reached her ears and she was forced to come to a standstill.

The sound, which she briefly thought about passing off as the mark of an old house, only cemented her to the moment and to the realisation of what she was about to do. He was in there, her _friend_ was in that very room, and she had dared to think about forsaking him. Swallowing thickly, she whirled around and slowly entered the parlour, choosing to quietly linger at the threshold to study the man whose back was to her.

And... there was no rush of emotion, no sudden weight coming down to press on her shoulders. There was only warm familiarity.

From behind, he appeared quite unassuming—his dark red morning coat was pressed and neatly fitted as his gentile hands held the hat that he then proceeded to tap against the back of his legs. He was staring at the painting on the wall—a piece by John Constable which her guardian had acquired some decades ago—with all the merit of a refined critic. A smile found its way to her lips.

"I hope I have not kept you waiting, Monsieur le Vicomte," she said, almost faltering when he spun around and smiled at her in return. "Raoul."

"Not at all!" he replied cheerfully, curling his fingers in the air before wrapping them safely around the brim of his hat as though he had intended to reach out to her. "Christine."

Her memory had served her well for he looked just as she remembered. He was as youthful as ever and his sleeked blonde locks often fought against its combed back position with apparent practice. Only one change altered her perceived image of him and that was the small moustache which now framed his boyish grin. And that grin only grew wider across his handsome features as she approached.

"Please, will you not sit?" she said politely, gesturing to the chair while not missing the odd look he gave her for the rigid tone of formality. "Will you have some tea?" she asked as he took a seat on the chair opposite the settee in which she sat.

"Tea?" he said, catching her eye after it had strayed. "Ah, yes... yes, I think I will have some, if that is all right."

"I shall see to it, then." Rising, she quickly padded across the floor, pausing at the doorway to call back, "Oh, please make yourself comfortable."

With her departure came the deep sigh that left Raoul's body. Settling into his seat, he peered about the room before peeling off his gloves and plopping them into his upturned hat, which now lay on his lap.

How well Christine had looked, he thought to himself, barely able to contain the smile on his face. Time had not melted away her beauty, nor had it altered her sweet disposition. If only she knew how he had all but run himself into the ground these past months, searching for her, fighting for her freedom... and here she was, _liberated_ , and he could only wonder... _how_?

When the sounds of her skirts wafting from side to side neared, Raoul quickly ran a hand through his hair and courteously stood when she came into view. As his nerves grew with the shy smile she offered him, he suddenly felt quite the bashful boy again, his freckles having not yet faded and his eagerness to impress the young Swedish girl only in its infancy.

"The tea will be along shortly," she told him, sitting down.

As Raoul studied her, he felt compelled to speak after he tried and failed to see the appeal in the colours of the carpet.

"Was the journey here terribly chilly?" she suddenly asked before he could open his mouth.

Raoul regarded her with a look of bewilderment as a short nervous laugh escaped him at her surprisingly formal etiquette. "No, fairly warm for this time of year, I would say."

Lightly humming in agreement, Christine nodded and continued, "And your family, are they well? Your sisters, and your brother?"

Her behaviour baffled him. Why did she address him as a stranger? "My sisters have fitted into married life quite well, so much so that I seldom see them. Though, I would not exactly call that a loss," he answered with a chuckle. "But Philippe is..." His pause was brief but the curious nature of his next words had Christine frowning. "He is perhaps too foolhardy these days."

What a queer thing to have said, she thought. "What ever do you mean?"

"Nothing, nothing," he said, waving it off before regarding her with such tenderness that she almost forced herself to look away. "I am glad to see you looking so well, Christine."

"And I, you," she replied honestly.

"Christine," he then said fervently, unable to contain his inquisitiveness any longer. Leaning forward, he eyed her. "I have tried for months to send word to you. It was as if you had simply vanished! When I was informed of your residence here, my mind was simply brimming with questions, as you can imagine."

Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, Christine lowered her gaze and focused on the miniscule loose thread at the hem of her dress. "My letter..."

"Yes, I know," Raoul reinstated, "but I did not want to give up altogether. Though you broke our engagement, I still longed to see you again, and now you sit before me as if nothing had ever occurred... Christine, _how_? What happened between the night we parted and now? How ever did you escape?"

"I did not escape, Raoul. I went freely."

His mind was a whirl as it attempted to process this new information. " _He_ allowed you to simply leave? Why? I did not think him so merciful," he mused bitterly, remembering the scorching heat of that accursed torture chamber. Ever since that night he had avoided any such dalliances with mirrors. His brother had thought it nonsensical, but every so often Raoul would wake up in the middle of the night, his body encased in sweat as though he could still feel the chamber's heat burning at his skin.

"You forget that he never truly intended for me to stay with him," she replied. "He released me, if you recall, he released _both_ of us—"

"And _you_ returned to him."

"Yes."

Raoul was simply speechless. Why did she act so nonchalant in the midst of her liberation? Should she not have been rejoicing? Tilting his head, he sighed. What exactly had happen between her and that fiend that made her appear so timid and withdrawn now? Before his mind could conjure scenarios he had only ever seen in his nightmares, he was stricken when his eyes happened to trail downwards to rest on her hand. He could not recall a time when he had been more offended and disheartened by an otherwise insignificant object than this very moment.

"You are married?"

Following his gaze, Christine seemed to momentarily blanch before relaxing, raising her fingers on her other hand to lightly stroke the surface of the ring. "No, I am not married."

"But you wear a ring." And then, as harsh and as sudden as a strike to the cheek, the realisation dawned on him. Abhorrence filled his entire being as he watched her touch the ring with such gentle reverence. "It's _his_ ring, isn't it?"

The hurt in his eyes was evident without Christine needing to look at him. His voice now trembled as the unspoken truth branded him more fiercely and more severely than any physical wound ever could. Shaking his head in disbelief, he covered his mouth with his fingers to keep from snatching at her hand.

" _Why_?" was the only thing he could manage to utter before a light knock on the door announced the arrival of the tea. Mme Martin kept her eyes down and away from the pair of youths as she passed them and set the tray down on the small table next to the settee. Christine watched her closely, determined to remain neutral and not to provide her with anything she might relay to her fellow nurses outside of this room.

"Thank you, Madame," she said briskly, the smile falling from her face as soon as the older woman had turned her back.

Leaning over to the tray as soon as the door had closed, Christine took the liberty of pouring the hot liquid into her own cup before pouring again into a second one. "You take one spoonful of sugar, if I remember correctly?" she directed at Raoul, who could only stare at her with indignity brimming in his eyes of blue.

With his cup and saucer held steadily in her hand, Christine rose and walked the short distance separating them, holding the beverage out as if it were an offering of peace. Raoul's fingers came up to hold the little saucer with ease, but as Christine made to pull away he quickly grasped her hand.

"You must know," he whispered ardently. "You must know I still care for you—"

"Raoul, please—"

"No," he interrupted, releasing her hand. "I will not see you wasting away here! I do not even care that you wear another man's ring on your finger! I love you!"

"Don't say that, please," she protested weakly, wrapping her arms around her trembling figure as she glanced between the door and the wall—anywhere but his eyes. "I am not wasting away, I am tending to Mamma."

"Yes," he murmured solemnly, recollecting the information about her situation. He must have seemed quite the fool to her. "Madame Giry informed me of her condition. Please forgive me, Christine. I profess love to you whilst your guardian lays bedridden upstairs! What must you think of me?"

"All is forgiven, Raoul," she answered rigidly, focusing on the incessant and irritating thudding of her heart. It was at this moment—albeit brief but there nonetheless—that she had wished for time to reverse; that she had never agreed to receive him.

"I worry for you."

"Hmm?" His voice drew her out of her thoughts and, with a sweep of her hand over her loose curls, she turned to face him. "How so?"

"Your guardian has live-in nurses, does she not?" he inquired, narrowing his eyes in concern when she nodded. "I thought as much. Their salaries cannot be cheap, I imagine. With their income dwindling the money from this household, what will you have to live on after... after your guardian is gone?" Forward was the last thing he had wanted to be, but his fear for her well-being outranked all else.

"I do not think that any concern of yours," she replied unfeelingly, flashes of their once strong fondness for one another brandishing her mind. "Our affairs are our own."

"Please," he quietly begged, his eyes never leaving hers as he leaned forward and reached for her hand, gently this time, determined to crack the mirror of her fa _ç_ ade, to see through this indifferent persona, this cold creature that she was being. Yes, he knew. He had seen her on stage too often not to know when she was performing, and this was his very own private performance. "Please," he repeated, squeezing her hand. "Let me take care of you."

"What exactly are you suggesting?"

"Christine." The words rolled off of his tongue as naturally as his lungs drew in air, "Marry me." A gasp escaped her and he quickly continued, not allowing her a moment to object. "I know it is impromptu and it is not an appropriate time to ask, but you would never need worry about financial problems. I can give you a household of your own, away from all of this, and I will love and care for you as I always have... if you would do me the honour of accepting me as your husband."

But she was already shaking her head. "Raoul, I cannot."

Releasing her hand slowly, he peered down awkwardly into his full teacup. "There is someone else."

"Yes," was all she said, but it was enough for his heart to break.

"May I ask whom?" He took a sip of the tea, not even able to taste its strong flavour on his tongue, before he set it down to the side and waited for the answer which never came. Instead, he found himself gazing up into two guilty eyes and his stomach twisted in disgust. " _No_ ," he whispered.

" _Yes_ ," she proclaimed, clasping her hands together and bringing them to her chest. "I am in love with him."

"No, no, no," Raoul repeated over and over again, wanting the monotonous repetitive words to drown out her confession. "No, you couldn't possibly be!"

It was all Christine could do to keep from weeping in front of him. Biting the inside of her mouth, she smiled sadly. "Would loving him be so terrible?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed, snapping his head up sharply before lowering it again, bringing his hand up to rub his eyes wearily. "I apologise for my outbursts and if I have offended you, but you cannot allow me to sit idly by and listen to this nonsense."

"Nonsense?" she echoed, a subdued rage tingling at the tips of her fingers. "You have the audacity to label my feelings as _nonsense_?"

At the sound of her tone, Raoul lowered his head in regret. "You know I did not mean it like that, Christine, but you must understand that I am finding this very hard to believe... Has he truly turned you against me?" he wondered aloud.

Her annoyed sigh reached his ears and managed to make his insides churn with remorse. How was it that the simplest airs of femininity were able to crush a man so quickly?

"I am not against you, Raoul," she reassured him with the tiredness of one who had heard the same accusation time and time again. "I was never against you."

Though they did only a little to calm his wounded heart, her words were not enough for him. "I do not understand your allegiance to him," he murmured, drooping his head forward to cradle it between his hands. "Your loyalties have always baffled me."

Defiantly, she raised her chin to the air. Though she could not blame him in his lack of knowledge on this subject, she was not about to ignore it entirely. "I do not find it so baffling, and I do not expect you to understand."

But how would he ever be able to understand the reasoning behind her actions? He would not, she concluded, for how could he when she was not certain of it herself? The only thing of the utmost importance to her was for Raoul not to find out the truth about the false rumours surrounding Erik. He must not find out that the Opera Ghost still lived! And so, it was with the deepest regard for her lover's safety that she whispered, "He is dead, Raoul."

The lie had slipped from her parted lips as sombrely as a grieving widow's sigh, and as Raoul raised his head to look at her, suspicion clouded his eyes.

"What?" he breathed. "Dead? How? When? This can't be true, I... Are you quite certain? Did you see it with your own eyes?"

He searched for answers in the trembling of her lips and the way she now bowed her head as though in mourning. "Why are you being so cruel?" she asked him, false tears springing to her eyes.

"I do not mean to be!" he cried quickly, not knowing if his attempts at comfort would induce hatred or acceptance from her. "I apologise. I just need to ascertain what you saw and how you know. There could always be a chance that he fooled you," he added as the cogs in his mind began to turn.

"Oh, I am quite certain of his death," Christine told him, gazing down at her ring before looking up to stare at him directly, "for you see, I buried him. Shortly before I moved in here, I laid the Opera Ghost to rest, Raoul. Do not speak of trickery and illusion where death is concerned."

"But, if that is true..." Huffing, Raoul promised himself to think through all of this when he returned home. He would surely give himself a migraine otherwise. "I am sorry for your loss," he said civilly, desperate not to face the wrath of the woman he loved and not wanting to think that he was completely heartless. But the words that next came from his mouth were spawned in a fit of jealousy, a momentarily lapse in control. "How can you mourn him? Do you not see what he has done to you, and is _still_ doing to you? Even in death he still haunts you! You are allowing a man to control you from beyond the grave! And you have allowed yourself to continue wearing his ring!"

"It was his final request," she said, frowning in her vulnerability, her mouth agape at his words. "It was the least I could do to honour him."

Resigned, Raoul nodded his head and began to rise. Though he would never accept the revelations that he had learnt today, he would do all in his power to see that Christine did not suffer because of them. "Perhaps it would be best if I were to leave," he said gently, offering her an apologetic smile. "I can see that I am only causing you distress."

"No, no, please," she suddenly cried, also rising to her feet, her arms outstretched. Raoul raised his eyebrow at her behaviour; what had possessed her all of a sudden? He did not believe that he had done anything to merit an invitation to stay. Sensing his reluctance, she spoke again, "Will you not speak to Mamma, at least? To say goodbye. I am certain that she will be happy to see you again."

Christine could see that he was fighting the urge to remain in her presence, but at the sadness which then passed over him, he agreed and slowly followed her up the stairs.

At his first glance at the old woman, Raoul almost stopped in his tracks. He was not accustomed to seeing such frailty in illness. Having been cosseted by his elder sisters, he had grown up unaware of the realities of such conditions, and their protectiveness had merely served as a shielding blanket around his body. Though he would never rebuke his upbringing, he was immediately struck at how ignorant he was. It took a heavy dose of his will not to stare.

Like a mother encouraging her child's first steps, Christine urged him forward until he sat down on the bedside chair, smiling reassuringly as he occasionally looked back over his shoulder. From afar, she watched him get reacquainted with her guardian and as tender words were exchanged, she noticed her friend relaxing.

A gleam shone in Raoul's eyes as he eased Christine into the conversation with tales of their adventures together when they were children, simultaneously delighting her and Mamma Valérius, who never tired of hearing such lovely stories of the boisterous youths. Reminiscing had made them nostalgic and they more than once caught one another's eye to share in the other's smiles, their earlier arguments suddenly forgotten.

It was not long, however, before Mamma Valérius began to tire and, ever respectful, Raoul bid his last farewell to the woman before giving Christine a moment alone with her. Once she returned to the hall where he waited, she escorted him silently to the front door, picking up his hat and gloves on the way.

Christine watched as he pulled on his gloves and readjusted his coat for the sharp breeze he was to expect on the other side of the door. Nervously fiddling with his hat between his fingers, Raoul commented, "By hearing Madame Valérius speak, one would never have guessed she was sick."

At this, Christine chuckled and replied, "Yes, she does not seem to have lost her tongue to the illness." A forced noise of contentment echoed between them as the smile then slipped from her face. "I apologise for how I have behaved towards you this past year, Raoul. I have been unfair to you."

"No, no," he protested lightly. "I... do not pretend to understand all that has happened, but I must face that it has, indeed, happened. Will you promise me something, however, Christine?"

"What?"

"If you are ever in any trouble, be it financial or otherwise, will you call on me to help you?" he asked, hope shining through his features. "I would not ignore you in your hour of need and, if what you say really is true, I think you will be in need of a friend soon. If you allow me to be, I will be that friend, Christine."

As the man before her—the man whom she had deserted and neglected—stood offering her nothing but his support and friendship, she felt compelled to accept it without hesitation.

Smiling, Christine thanked him and said, "Come, let us part as old friends."

Quickly catching her hand, Raoul bent down slowly, keeping his eyes locked with hers as he kissed her knuckles. Her breath caught at the unexpected gesture as he held her hand prisoner, asking, "May I see you again? Perhaps we can meet without provoking one another," he added with a chuckle. "Shall we make it a challenge?"

"I..." Startled, she pulled her hand away and stood awkwardly for a moment. "I do not know."

"But you will write me if you need help, yes?" When she nodded, he was pleased. "Good day, then," he said, straightening and tipping his hat towards her before placing it on his head, "Christine."

When the door shut behind him, she wrapped her arms around her waist and denied herself the secret pleasure of watching him walk down the street, choosing instead to retire to the parlour to finish the tea. She found it to be cold.


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: I don't say thank you as often as I should, but I'll say a brief one now to everyone who's taken the time to read this or review/favourite/follow! I'm glad this old story can still entertain a few people!**

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Falling into the seat of his carriage dejectedly, the Vicomte instructed his coachman to take him the short distance to the Tuileries Garden, the need for fresh air tempting his body greater than the pull to return home. Running a hand over his face, he leaned his elbow against the window as the uneven streets jostled him from side to side. His eyes barely registered the slow movement of life outside as he bounced his leg up and down in a bout of nerves.

On they went, through the busy roads—did Paris never sleep? Sighing, Raoul knew that he would not sleep either, not after seeing Christine again.

Flexing his gloved fingers, he took a moment to adjust his jacket before glancing out the window again to see that they had arrived. Telling the coachman to wait for him, he began a solitary stroll along the pathway of the garden. Habitually, yet somewhat distantly, he tipped his hat to some bystanders and smiled graciously as they passed, but the throng of people seemed to blur as he walked.

Though not yet midday, the garden was relatively busy with those enthusiastic enough to brace the dull weather for a quiet promenade. There was no rush here, and perhaps that was what drew Raoul to this particular spot. Men walked alone with confidence in their brisk strides, or leisurely with another, while several women dallied in groups. But those who traversed arm in arm with one another were the ones that managed to draw Raoul's eye. Chaperoned couples in the early days of their courtship, married couples who still beheld their spouse as if it were the first time they laid eyes on them, young couples, elderly ones, couples in love—all they could see was each other, and all Raoul could see was them. Silently, he continued his way through the sparse crowds, feeling a stab of loneliness in his heart. He wondered how one could feel so alone amongst so many people.

He had felt that pang of discomfort many times in recent months. During the time spent to himself, dwelling on all that had happened, searching for a way to free the only woman he had ever loved, Raoul had been forced to attend several society gatherings, organised covertly for his benefit by his brother.

His family still disapproved of his behaviour, pining for 'that little theatre girl' when there were many eligible and, more importantly, _suitable_ women with whom he could be involved. Not wishing to be a burden, however, but never forgetting his plight to save Christine, Raoul showed up to every one of these parties, smiling politely even in the wake of his sisters' unsubtle attempts at matchmaking.

Heiresses of all creeds were introduced to him and though they were pleasant enough, none had succeeded in partaking in another audience with Raoul. Despite the vigorous endeavours by his family, his entire world was still centred around finding Christine... and now that he had, he was at a loss as to what to do. Should he not be overjoyed? Should he not be thankful over her safety and health? Should he not be pleased that the perpetrator was dead?

Raoul did not understand the deep sadness in her eyes when she spoke of _him_ , nor did he understand how she could have grown to... Raoul could not even bring himself to think the word. The notion that she could have come to care for the man had completely escaped him. Had she completely taken leave of her senses? But then a thought occurred to him, so poignant, so unsavoury as it entered his mind that he almost bumped into a passing gentleman. What if her affections were genuine? He had not been there with them so he could not say for himself whether or not she spoke the truth, but perhaps that was just it. He _had not been there_. Maybe it had been out of consolation, maybe it had been the dependability of seeing the same person everyday... and maybe not.

He did not know which he feared the most: knowing the truth, or never knowing.

If what she said was true, if she truly did care for that man, then Raoul hated him all the more. Not for gaining her affections, not for stealing her away... No, Raoul hated him because he was a cause of Christine's unhappiness.

Sighing, he turned around and headed back towards the carriage. If she would only let him, he would do anything to see her happy again.

o0o

Fighting back unintelligible whimpers, Christine told Erik of her guardian's refusal of his tonic. She took refuge in his arms as she realised all too late just how hopeful she had been for Mamma to accept it.

"She was so _adamant_ ," Christine whispered, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. "You should have seen her, Erik! Had she the strength, I have no doubt that she would have raised her voice at me. I had never seen her so angry before. But I have done as you asked and now I can do no more."

When several moments passed without her speaking, Erik held her at arm's length, debating whether or not to usher her over to the fire so that her tremors may cease. "Christine?"

As if she had read his thoughts, she suddenly turned and slowly walked over to the fireplace and sat down on the chair, staring at the floor with a vacant expression in her eyes. Her fingers absent-mindedly began toying with the ends of her hair before she ran her hands over the taut features of her face, wishing that she had the power within her bones to will away her sadness.

Continuing to stare at nothing in particular, Christine then extended her hand to the side, an aloof smile appearing on her mouth as Erik slipped his hand into hers and came to kneel in front of her. Disturbed and agitated by her silence, he drummed the fingers of his free hand against his thigh before slumping forward, lowering his head to her lap. He held her waist as she stroked his sparse hair in thought.

Mere months ago, Erik would never have expected her to want to do this to him. The very notion of her hands touching his disgusting skin was an enthralling dream, but a dream nonetheless. However, with time and the addictive substance that was her love, his trust in her had grown and he knew that her touch would not bring him any pain. No, her gentle nature all but forbade that, and as her fingers lovingly ran over his scalp, he knew that she did not blame him for what had occurred between her and Madame Valérius.

With the utmost softness, Christine then grasped his head, tilting it upwards as she lowered her lips to his. Despite the heavy atmosphere, Erik found himself smiling against her mouth, his hands coming up to hold her shoulders firmly as she continued to kiss him with such tenderness that he felt his heart had wings.

Christine allowed herself to melt into his embrace and his kiss, wanting nothing more than to hold him in her arms until far into the night. Even after encountering Raoul again, even after his misjudgements, she still believed that she had made the right choice in remaining with Erik.

Raoul would never leave her mind again, however. This, she was certain about, and she was glad of it. Her dear friend deserved more than what she had given him.

Kissing Erik once more, Christine sighed and murmured, "I do not think I will be ready for it, but I will accept it. At least, I hope I have the strength to. The worst of it is yet to come, I am sure."

"Mmm," he hummed in agreement, not wanting to give her false hope or sweetened words to fall victim to again. The truth was what she wanted to hear now and he would not be the one to veil her from it.

Christine gently touched the hair at the back of his neck. "Erik, would you do something for me?"

"Oh, anything, my love," he replied before pressing himself closer to her.

Pulling back, she stared determinedly at him, a strange gleam now clouding her eyes. "If there was another way, if you could still help Mamma, would you?"

Sliding his hands down her arms to gather her hands to his chest, he glanced up at her and raised an eyebrow, curious as to her intentions. "What are you thinking?"

Unsure of how to word her request, she bit her lip, looking away into the fire before squeezing his hands. "Did you know that Mamma still believes in the Angel of Music?"

Like lashes of hot fire, the name branded itself into Erik's skin—the name he wished to never hear again. He dreaded the title would forever circulate through his body, as dependent and as thick as his own blood, and to see Christine every day was merely a reminder of the façade, of the pain he had caused her, and of the fact that he strove to do all in his power to rectify it.

Fearing her ridicule, Erik had never mentioned the title again, but endured it as his penance whenever she sought him out over it. For her, he could withstand torture... but that did not make it hurt any less.

"What are you asking of me?" he said, drawing in a shaky breath as she gazed down at him.

"There is nothing medically we are able to do for her now, Erik," she began to whisper, moving her hands back to his masked cheeks. "She will not take your tonic and I do not know how long she has left... I used to tell her of the Angel of Music," she continued, smiling as she was lost in memory. "She, too, believed, and she was so happy when I would tell her of our lessons together and my progress. Do you know what she secretly wished?"

He swallowed a lump in his throat as he forced a shaky, " _What_?", out of his mouth.

"She wished, just once," she said, stroking his jaw, "that she could meet the Angel of Music."

"Christine—"

"I know," she said quickly, closing her eyes in a mixture of annoyance and expectancy, already weary from his unspoken protestations. "I know," she continued, softly this time, leaning forward in the midst of a small victory as he allowed her to rest her forehead against his mask. "That part of you is buried now, but _please_ , for me, reconsider. For one night, Erik. I would be so happy and so grateful to you if you would go to her. Just for one night, play the angel to her."

At first, Erik nearly threw his head back in laughter at the ridiculous position he had found himself in. His entire countenance pulsated with mirth, but it all dissolved as soon as she had spoken her plea. Quickly, he scolded himself for even thinking about laughing and knew that no matter how much he protested, he would submit to her request.

"For you, Christine," he consigned finally, warming at the encouraging brightness in her eyes. "For you, I shall resurrect the angel."

And with a kiss, the agreement was sealed.

o0o

Relinquishing the last of her strength, Madame Valérius welcomed the intruding moon beams as her guiding light, thinking it fitting that she would leave this world as she entered it: under the blanket of a night sky.

Having dressed in her Sunday's best, despite the loud and frantic fretting from her carers, she then barred them from her bedchamber as she settled into bed with a strange sense of serenity in her heart. In her weakened state, she saw clarity, and in that, acceptance.

And so she waited, waited for the inevitable, waited for that eternal sleep to carry her away.

A simple, solitary knock at the door pulled her from the deep spirals of her mind, causing her heavy head to shift against the softness of her pillow. She answered softly, her voice croaky and frail, but a smile broke out over her pale lips as she saw her ward poke her head around the door frame before closing it behind her.

"Christine, dear," she welcomed, ushering her over with stiff fingers before gesturing to the chair beside the bed. "I am glad you came to see me."

Forcing a smile to her face, Christine sat down and stared at the candle on the bedside table, its deep orange glow casting her guardian in a disturbing, yet heavenly light. "Why do you say that, Mamma?"

"No reason at all, no reason at all," she said quickly, smiling at her in return. "I love you, my darling child. Do you know that?"

"Yes, Mamma, of course I do. And I love you, too." As Christine looked into her eyes, her features softened, a melancholy tenderness passing over them. "I have brought someone to see you."

"I am hardly one to receive company in my state, child," she replied, yet ever curious, her attention piqued. Sitting up, her ruffled sleeves creasing ever so slightly at her small movements, she peered behind Christine. "Who is it, then?"

Startled, yet pleased by her enthusiasm, Christine readied herself and slowly took her hand. "I have brought someone very special, just for you. I think you will be pleased."

"Well?" Mamma Valérius said, holding a handkerchief to her mouth as a very slight cough followed the word. "I cannot be expected to wait for so long, dear," she said in jest.

"Mamma," Christine said gently, leaning forward. "Do you remember a time last year when I disappeared for two weeks? Do you remember where I went?"

The old woman laid back against her pillows, bemused at first for the strangeness of this moment, but then inquisitive of the path she was being led down. For a minute, Mamma Valérius did nothing but sit in silence, trying to think back on a time when she was able to walk without someone fidgeting at her side and when blood didn't stain the edges of her clothing. But in the midst of these painful memories came the answer to her ward's question.

"Your Angel took you. But, dear, what has this to do with anything?"

"Would you care to hear the things that I heard during my stay with him?" Christine continued, watching intently as realisation began to pour into every one of her guardian's limbs. "Would you care to meet the Angel of Music?"

Unspoken words hung on the woman's tongue like a fish on a hook, struggling, gasping, and with bated breath, her eyes grew wide as a voice reigned down on her.

" _Good evening_ , _Madame Valérius._ "

A tremor quaked her frail body as that voice—that terrible, yet beautiful voice—spoke to her in whispers of docile fortitude. A chill ran through her old bones. She was truly in the presence of a servant of God. _Heaven absolve me of my sins_! she silently begged as she clutched her hands together in honourable prayer.

" _Have no fear and you shall overcome_ ," the voice said, floating around the still room, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. " _As a reward for your ward's servitude_ , _I have granted her a request_. _Madame, I have come to guide you to Heaven's gate with music as your wings_."

Mamma Valérius' eyes slipped shut as the Angel began to play for her, the hypnotic tones of his violin like heat against her ailing body, melting away her tension and all else until nothing was left but the soothing rhythm of her own heart which thumped in syncopated beats to the Angel's song.

From her bedside chair, Christine listened heartily to her lover crooning a lullaby to her guardian, whose mouth was curling upwards into a smile. Cautiously, so as not to disturb her, Christine silently slid her fingers underneath one of the wrinkled hands that used to hold her so dearly. As Mamma Valérius fell under the spell of the Angel's music, Christine began to shake with a fear far greater than she had ever experienced. The hand above hers was cold to the touch and she reverently traced the bones and veins and freckles and wrinkles, committing each line to memory.

Yet, as she glanced up and saw a look of utter serenity overcome her guardian's face, she knew she should not fear. But still it did not stop the tears which shone in her eyes as Christine kissed her own fingertips and raised them to the Heavens, to _him_ , in gratitude and in love.

Erik, concealed within shadow and cloud, savoured her gesture and continued to serenade the woman in the bed. Like Horatio cradling Hamlet during his last moments, he witnessed their final goodbye, and as Madame Valérius' hand grew limp in Christine's, he bowed his head in respect. His stringed melody effortlessly melded into a lament as Christine wept silently, her face pressed to the mattress in despair.

In a grave voice, he whispered down to the women below, "' _And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest_.'"


	28. Chapter 28

The congregation at the Montmartre Cemetery was small.

Immediate members of the family stood in regimented rows around the looming hole in the ground as the priest blessed the unconsecrated grave. He sprinkled holy water as the smell of incense filled the air. Prayers were whispered and words of condolence were exchanged, yet Christine could not do anything to quench the pain that stung her heart in speaking with these strangers.

The service was brief, and for that, she was thankful. Through the black lace that covered her face, she watched as the men and women shuffled their way through the overcrowded graveyard, crying and hushing one another as the mournful parade trudged towards their carriages.

Only Christine stayed behind by the marked grave long after everyone had left, staring rigidly at the ground, her muscles taut. Even the first pellets of rain falling heavily against her cloak did nothing to deter her pensive mood, and still she remained as silent as the graves at her feet and completely unmoved by the reminder of death at every turn.

It was almost laughable, the pretence of the church. How righteous they were to ordain the ceremony, to guide her guardian's soul to He who had killed her. Bitterness should have been the very last thing on Christine's mind but she could not help it, nor could she help the numbness that shielded her body from tears and from the icy nip of the rain.

There she stood, as impenetrable and as stoic as the carved mausoleums that guarded the dead. She did not even flinch when a heavy hand came to rest on her shoulder, for a moment later, _his_ voice was whispering into her ear. "You will catch your death out here."

"So be it," she replied to the musky earth.

Turning to him, she gazed into the blackness of his cloak, slowly trailing her eyes upwards until they beheld the ghastly disguise covering his features. Prosthetics and a pair of acquired spectacles stared back at her and Christine found herself wincing inwardly at the strange sight of a nose on his face.

Pain flashed in his dark eyes as he tried, unsuccessfully, to study her expression behind the veil. "I have a hansom waiting for us. Come out of the rain, Christine."

Peering behind her, she gazed at the mound of earth that barred her from her guardian, before nodding and allowing Erik to lead her through the headstones, his hand barely registering against her gloved fingers.

Her mind was blank as she was helped into the vehicle and Erik settled in beside her, fixing the brim of his wide hat as he stared at her in concern. Christine could feel him glancing at her from out of the corner of her eye, but she ignored him as if he were not even there.

"God has forsaken me," she murmured, looking out of the dirty window with sullen eyes as the cab rolled forward, "and so I will forsake him."

o0o

Entering the now empty house alone, Christine was welcomed in by a biting chill as she removed her veil and cap. Taking the cross from around her neck proved to be an easier task than she first thought and she did not waste any time in wrapping it up in her veil so it would be out of her sight.

With a sharp flick of her wrist, she bolted the door shut and began to draw the drapes, her somnolent movements slowing her body and the effectiveness of her fingers in lighting the oil lamp. As the room pulsed with the dull orange omitted from the flame, she cursed the tremor that ran through her hands.

She journeyed up the stairs as one condemned, pausing only once as she passed her guardian's room. She shifted her weight back and forth on the spot, testing herself to see if she could resist the call of the tomb-like chamber. Clenching her jaw, she tilted her head upwards in protest to her own wishes, knowing how ridiculous and morbid she was being, and continued forward to her own room.

She was not surprised to see Erik already waiting there, his long and sharp-edged limbs bent as he knelt before the hearth, stoking the fire.

Hardly sparing him a glance as she sauntered past, she pushed her dress skirts out of her way and muttered, "I wish you would use the front door like everyone else."

Without turning his head, Erik did not realise how agitated she was until he heard the loud clatter of the lamp as she set it down on her vanity table. Although her words were unjustified and harsh, he could not fault her for them, not in her state of mind. Staring into the embers, he resigned himself to her judgement—if she needed him simply as a victim to hurl insult at, then so be it.

Standing to his full height, he heard the unpleasant crack of his weary bones before he collapsed onto the chair beside him, his hands itching to be used. He did not like this feeling, of being helpless, of waiting to be told what to do when a single word from him could unleash his companion's hysterics. Remaining silent was his best option, he concluded as he allowed himself to relax into the chair and let his eye lids droop.

It was when he heard the faint rustle of clothing, however, that his eyes reluctantly opened and he rolled his head to the side only to gasp at what he saw there. On the floor lay Christine's dress, along with her hairpins, and his eyes trailed up just in time to see her petticoats swishing from side to side and her attention being drawn to her camisole before she disappeared behind the screen next to her armoire.

Erik sat back rigidly, his fingers tightening around the armrests as Christine mechanically set to work removing the frivolous and wet layers from her body in the quest for freedom. For the entire day she had smiled when necessary, conversed with relatives who were not her own and stood stoically, striving to keep her emotions from slipping or showing. She had been the epitome of control, and she hated it. The air was stagnant and her breath came in short rasps as she frantically groped at the laces on her corset, fighting the suffocating material with all her might. In her distress, however, her hands searched blindly and in vain until she let out a frustrated cry and strode around the screen.

Lost in a blur of hazy annoyance, Christine managed to miss the look of horror that shone in Erik's eyes as she approached him.

Gulping, he looked away before dragging his gaze back to her. Her dressing gown had always succeeded in covering her body until it looked like a single bulging mass, but never had he seen her looking so... indecent before. To see the intricacies of what females did for beauty startled him, but no more so than the shapely curve of her stocking clad legs, which disappeared beneath her thick chemise. With all the curiosity of a young boy, he could not stop himself from looking. He had never seen a woman's legs this close before.

Turning to stand with her back to him, Christine sighed and gestured towards her hindrance. "Help me," she pleaded.

It took him a while for his displaced mind to make sense of her words, and even longer for him to understand what she was asking of him. Becoming more flustered by the second, Erik reached up with trembling fingers and began to unlace her corset, making sure his skin did not accidentally brush up against anything other than the laces.

Once he was finished, he felt the muscles in his arms begin to tense as he awkwardly held the edges of the corset, and when Christine made no move to reach up to it herself, he cleared his throat.

Demurely, she peered over her shoulder, eyes veiled and lips parted. "Let go," she commanded in a gentle, yet assertive voice, dulled satisfaction overcoming her as the corset slid down her body before landing with a quiet thud on the floor.

Turning slowly to face Erik, her closeness almost stifling him, she made no move to retreat or attempt to loosen the chemise from around her body, simply choosing to stand there passively as she watched his eyes fill with her and the way the material now clung to her curves. Her hair, which hung in wet tendrils over her shoulders, dripped down her chest, dampening her chemise ever so slightly and infusing Erik's body with an incorrigible heat. His hands fisted at his knees as this consuming yet uncomfortable sensation came over him.

A frown shortly appeared on Christine's brow, the creases accentuated by the fire, casting long and ugly shadows across her face. But it was not her face with which she was concerned. It was _his._ Biting her lip, she observed the ridiculous prosthetic mask he was still wearing. It was horrid and she despised it. She even thought it uglier than his true face.

Softening her gaze, her fingers began to flutter around his features, trying to find the seams that would give away their falsity. However, after several moments of searching, she could find no lines that indicated the presence of patchwork and she cursed his handiwork.

Lowering her hands, she asked him kindly if he would remove it. His deliberations and protestations began and ended with the sight of her smile and soon his hands were rising to his face, carefully shedding himself of the eye glasses and the smaller pieces—fuller cheeks, a larger forehead, his nose... Morbidly, Christine watched him remove every one of them, a thrilling, yet unwholesome sense of curiosity filling her over the thought of him peeling the skin from his face at her request.

Once he had safely placed them on the small table to his right, Christine murmured her gratitude before she slowly walked forward and boldly settled herself between his legs, cupping the back of his head with her hands as she brought him close to her body. Nestled against her torso, Erik struggled to comprehend what was happening before she moulded herself to him, holding him close.

His hands did not move from his knees.

Closing her eyes, Christine yearned for his touch, craving it all the more in light of her emptiness; her loneliness. Propriety nearly had her ripping herself away from his body, but the tantalising brush of his thighs against her legs was too powerful to ignore.

Pulling him back enough to meet him face to face, she gently tilted his head up, her eyes dark and unwavering as she stared down at him, lost to the feeling of his breath against her skin. A hefty blush stained her cheeks at this. A year ago, she would have found dizzying displeasure in the very thought of such brazen conduct. The mere notion of a man's hands upon her skin was almost repulsive, but now... now, things were different. Over the last year, she had matured and had changed. Yes, she was much changed. It was the reason why she was now leaning her head over his, her mouth but a breath away from his mouth.

"Kiss me."

"What?" he rasped, the word landing harshly, yet pleasantly on her chin _._

" _Kiss_ _me_ ," she whispered before lowering her lips to his.

Erik bit back a moan of submission as his hands flew out to his sides, unprepared for her bold actions. A mutual shyness had always lurked beneath their affection for one another. It had always been present, from every kiss to every brush of their fingers. But something was different now, he could sense it in the intoxicating way she threaded her hands into his hair and the confident way in which she pressed herself to him. She surrounded him—her light breath, the faint scent of earth and rain upon her skin, her warmth—and before he could think, he was wrapping his arms tightly around her waist, drawing her ever nearer.

Grasping his cheeks gently, Christine deepened their kiss, pulling him to his feet in the process, before sliding her hands down to wind her fingers into his lapels.

Her touch was suffocating and yet he craved it hopelessly like an addict looking for the bliss that poured from the tip of a needle. She was just as sharp as the little instrument, but she was a much sweeter drug, more so than any he had tasted before. He knew then that one day he would die from her.

Tearing himself away, he stepped back, staring at the floor as he soothed his breathing. He would have fled to the other side of the room were it not for one of Christine's arms snaking back around his neck. Yes, the woman would most assuredly be the death of him.

"Christine, I... I should not... You said..." His mumbled and garbled words amused her in a strange way. It was almost endearing to know what he was thinking, to know the power she held over him. "A gentleman would not..."

Closing her eyes, she leaned in closer to him, her lips teasing the skin beneath his ear as she whispered, "But you, Monsieur, are no gentleman."

This pitiful truth was all the encouragement he needed to grasp her firmly and kiss her with such intensity that it took her breath away. Pulling her roughly against him, he clumsily ran his hands down her back before settling at her shapely hips, decades of suppressed desire and inexperience both hindering and driving his touches.

How little he knew of women, let alone how to please one. But, oh, how eager he was to learn! And how eager he was to make her happy! Would she forgive him his nervous touches? Would she not care that he did not know how to please her?

His tremulous fingers bunched the material at her pelvis, his heart thudding as loudly as a drum at the promise of flesh beneath it. Though curious and ardent in his emotions, his hands did not stray, did not seek to remove her layers or move them any more than through the occasional rolling of his fingers, outlining the curve of her hips beneath.

Standing on heavy legs and feeling as though she would fall to the floor in a heap, Christine anchored herself to him, winding her arms around his neck as she kissed him again, pushing herself closer in a need to be held and loved. In her haste, however, she did not even register her own feet moving until the hard, sculpted bed post collided with her back.

Erik's mouth—a mouth she had once thought undesirable in every way—soon made its way down her neck, kissing languidly at her throat and collarbone. Sliding aching fingers into his sparse hair, Christine held his mouth in place with one hand, while the other clutched the bed post supporting her, gripping it tightly as her heavy head lolled to the side.

The rigid coolness behind her was a welcome change from the warmth that radiated between their bodies and, suddenly, she felt as if he was all around her. The husky scent of desire, the closeness of his body, his attentive hands, his lips—Lord in Heaven, his _lips_! Still tender in their revered plight, they ravaged her skin before trailing shyly down her chest and over the soft swell of her breast. Her sudden gasp piqued his curiosity and he froze, staring up at her face as virginal trembles wracked through his body. He could neither proceed nor pull away for several lengthy seconds until the feeling of her fingers against the back of his neck coaxed him from his shell.

Through her chemise, he trailed his lips across her sensitive flesh, a sinful tingle running through her as his tongue soon brushed against her hardening peak. Her mouth soon parted, soft pants coming short and fast from the back of her throat. Here he paused again, looking up and gauging her pleasing reaction. His want for her had fuelled his daring and experimental touches and though he knew nothing of what was right or appropriate, the expression on Christine's face was enough for him to continue.

Pressing his lips to her breast again, she let out a shocked gasp as a sudden and compelling heat between her legs urged her on. Everything was a blur to her—carnal delights no longer seemed sinful for propriety was lost to her, just as surely as God was now lost to her. Wantonly, she pulled Erik closer, her mind straying from all coherent thought as she selfishly writhed against him, desperately seeking something to soothe the burning ache that singed her body.

And then his fingers were dragging down her sides, over her waist, her hips, lower and lower until they slipped beneath her chemise and stroked the quivering flesh of her legs. His fervent touch felt as though it could burn through the material of her stockings. Overwhelmed by his slow exploration, Christine laid her head back against the bed post as his fingers moved upwards, finding the exposed skin just above her stockings. The coolness of his hands chilled her as much as it thrilled her and his fingers tickled her skin before dipping just beneath the edge of her drawers.

She stiffened as he knelt down before her, his other hand gripping her hip as she tried to concentrate on how his mouth felt against the slight curve of her stomach. Under her drawers, his fingers traced the bare skin of her thigh before he pressed his forehead to her body.

" _My God_ ," he whispered achingly.

A ragged groan left her mouth before she frowned and cast her eyes towards the Heavens, murmuring, "There is no God."

This caught Erik's attention and he stared up at her in a mixture of want and concern, her words nearly engraving themselves into his mind—a permanent reminder of their nihilistic intimacy. Grimacing, he withdrew his hands and quickly stood up, watching as Christine seemed to gather her senses, sobering in a matter of seconds.

The woman who had spun allure into the simplest gesture had vanished and in her place stood a cynical little girl, whose modesty shone through even her most audacious of conducts. And he could only stare at her in pity.

They exchanged a knowing look, each sensing a change in the other, before she brokenly whispered, "You are all I have now," sliding her hands up to his shoulders and burying her head into the crook of his neck, submitting to the dreadful realisation that she had become dependent on him. "You would not leave me, would you? You would not leave me like all the others. You would not leave me alone."

Drawing her close to him, he held her in his stiff arms and murmured softly into her hair, "Erik will never leave you."

He felt the slightest of movements, the brief nodding of her head against his shirt, before she began to shake and cry—all those hours of suppressed emotion now finding a proper release.

" _Why_?" she sobbed, holding him tightly lest he be taken from her arms by some unseen force. "Why did she have to die? Everyone I love... every one of them... _dead_... apart from you. I will not let you leave me! You will not leave me. I will not let you be taken from me."

Hearing her troubled words and feeling her body convulsing against him, Erik gently guided her to her bed and drew back the sheets, lightly prodding her shoulders as he settled her into a laying position. Covering her up, he knelt by her side, his fingers barely touching her warm forehead as he brushed a drying curl away from her face.

"Do you think me cursed, Erik?" she asked him, nuzzling the pillow beneath her head in a tiresome fashion as her wet cheeks began to stain the white case.

"Silly girl," he whispered, allowing her to pull him closer with her little hand until he was sitting next to her shuddering body.

Needing the consolation of his presence now more than ever, Christine shuffled forward until her weary head lay in his lap, her hands splaying across his back as he hunched over her protectively. With her nose pressed up against his shirt, she inhaled deeply, fresh tears stinging her eyes as his familiar and comforting scent wrapped around her. Adoring fingers stroked her hair as her breathing steadied, the tightening in her chest finally disappearing and her grip loosening to a limp hold.

It was at that moment that she heard something, a noise, the most wondrous of sounds! At first, she thought that sleep had mercifully claimed her, for nothing could sound so heavenly and be real. But no, she was very much awake... and Erik was singing to her.

His sonorous tones filled the air and serenaded her with dulcet words that warmed her heart, easing her into a much needed slumber. When was the last time he had sung for her? When was the last time she had even heard his celestial tones in song? She could not remember. She could not remember anything now, for her mind had dulled into a state of rest, subdued by that beautiful voice.

She wanted to thank him, to throw her arms around him and weep all over again, but she had neither the strength nor the words to convey her gratitude, and so she slipped into the darkness as an angel watched over her.


	29. Chapter 29

The amber hues of brandy did nothing but swirl gently around Philippe de Chagny's glass as he sat brooding in his desk chair, a pensive frown wrinkling his strong brow at the sight of his younger brother at the window. He was reminded of one of those forlorn men who would pine helplessly for their lover in the literature he so terribly disliked.

Philippe could not help pitying the poor boy at his inability to forgo his attachment to the Daaé girl. As much as he could not understand the appeal for such a dalliance, he could not help but feel hypocritical. He did, after all, enjoy his time spent with La Sorelli. Leaning back in his chair, he took a small sip of the brandy and smiled to himself. Now, there was a woman, he thought.

A sigh brought him back to the present and Philippe glanced over to his brother, whose arm now rested against the glass above his head.

"The rain cannot be that interesting," Philippe teased, but to no avail. "What has you so gloomy?"

"Today is the funeral for Christine's guardian," Raoul answered after swallowing thickly, his gaze flickering to anything that moved, anything that might distract him from his thoughts. "I should be there; I should be with her today."

"Why aren't you?" he asked, watching with curiosity as those blue eyes turned towards him and narrowed. "It is a simple enough question," he added.

With a grimace, Raoul faced the window again, spying carriages in the distance as they raced to escape the rain. He wondered if Christine was in one of them.

Taking his pocket watch out of his waistcoat, he glanced disinterestedly at the time before walking over and sinking down into the chair facing his brother. "You can stop looking for _him_ ," Raoul said, sensing Philippe's thoughts. "It's over."

"Why would I stop when I am so close?" he retorted, leaning forward in his seat, a determined glint in his eye. "And why should you want me to stop? I am doing this for you! He nearly killed you and that Persian fellow."

"And yet here we are," Raoul replied stubbornly, looking away towards the window briefly as memories of intolerable heat smouldered in his mind. Unconsciously, he fiddled with his collar.

"There are many who did not survive him," Philippe argued, pointing the rim of his glass towards Raoul, who eyed it. "Who knows how many have died at his hand. Is it wrong to want justice brought to the man responsible?"

"Not when justice has already been brought to him," Raoul said before he had a chance to catch himself. Huffing, he repositioned himself in his chair, feeling the urge to loosen the clothing around his neck under the sudden pressure of the humidity. Or, what he at least thought was the humidity. Yes, perhaps he should have told his brother sooner.

Putting his glass down on the desk before him, Philippe wracked his muddled mind to find a sensible explanation for Raoul's words. "What do you mean?" he eventually managed. "Tell me what you know."

" _He_ is dead," his younger brother stated defiantly. "Christine told me herself when I last saw her."

Expecting Philippe to stir up quite the reaction, Raoul was then surprised to see him simply lean back in his chair, his face partially obscured by his steepled fingers. The subdued display before him even made Raoul wish for his own glass of cognac.

"And you believed her?" was Philippe's reply, not a whisper of emotion seeping into his distantly professional tone.

"Of course," Raoul answered quickly before rethinking. "Well, no... Not at first, anyway, but I was convinced and I remain so. When I asked her if she had seen him die, she became very distressed, and... Philippe, she said she _buried_ him, shortly before she moved in with her guardian last month. Can you imagine having to do such a horrible thing?"

Philippe swept his eyes over his companion before reaching for his brandy once more. "She is an actress, is she not?"

At this, Raoul blanched. "What exactly are you insinuating?" he asked, leaning forward and curling one hand round the side of that monstrous desk. "You think she is lying?" The slight nod of his head was all it took for Raoul's blood to boil. "You dare to insult her? _Why_? Why would you say such a thing? Why would you think she is lying?"

"Because I have reason to believe that she is," was his steely reply. "My private ongoing investigation—oh, do not look at me like that, Raoul. Did you expect me to just sit here idly while my brother's attacker goes unpunished? You must have known I would use every resource available to me."

Raising his hand to his head, he pressed his fingers against his temple. "Why do I have the feeling you have withheld more information from me than I know?"

A hearty chuckle floated through the air and Raoul found himself staring at his brother for laughing at him. "You are far too headstrong for your own good. I feared what you would do," Philippe explained. "Raoul, your skin still burns at the very memory of that chamber." But no sooner than the words had left his mouth had remorse taken over him. Shaking his head, he stared down at his lap. "Forgive me," he pleaded. "I did not mean to bring it up, but do you see my point? You would have done anything to protect that girl and you would have acted first and thought through it later."

"Tell me," Raoul insisted, not wanting to allow Philippe to change the topic of conversation. "Your investigation, what has led you to believe that _he_ is still alive?"

"Ah," he said, exhaling the word in a weary sigh. "I have been sending gendarme—covertly of course—underneath the Opéra. Ever since your attempts at retrieving Mademoiselle Daaé failed, I have seen to my own. It was a relentless task at first. No one wished to take the journey and those who did ended up lost in the darkness, sometimes for hours. Even the building's schematic did not seem quite right. Few made it as far as the third cellar, but after a while, paths were forged and remembered. It would have been a swift job, but as it turns out, those officers are easily spooked. It is odd, no? How grown men can be so frightened by ghosts. Those who managed to progress further, however, reported back to me quite recently that they had found something. Evidence of life in that dark pit."

Leaning forward, Raoul rested his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped before his furrowed brow in curiosity. "What was it?"

"Music," Philippe replied, enunciating the word as though God Himself had whispered it to him.

Raoul, on the other hand, was far from impressed. "Is that all?"

"You are not surprised," he said, raising his eyebrow.

"No," he replied, thinking over the most logical explanation. "It seemed likely that there would have been music. Christine is a singer and _he_ was her teacher. She once told me that you could hear music from anywhere in the Opéra, even five cellars below."

Philippe grinned. "But does it seem likely that that music would continue after she had buried him and left?"

" _What_?" Raoul exclaimed in disbelief. "That... No, they must be mistaken. How can you even trust the credibility of these men? You are paying them, yes? Who knows what they could say for money?"

"Enough, Raoul," Philippe silenced. "I believe their claims and I now believe that she is harbouring him; that she is _protecting_ him." Eyeing his younger brother, he then asked, "Do you know of a reason as to why she would do such a thing?"

Yes, Raoul knew of a reason, but he would be damned if he ever admitted it to Philippe, or even himself. And if what his brother had told him were true, if _he_ was truly still alive, then he would be destroying the happiness of the woman he loved simply by opening his mouth. Raoul could not very well swallow the truth of Christine's allegiance, but neither could he stand to be the cause of her unhappiness.

"Why do you not jump at this chance?" Philippe probed when all he received was a shake of Raoul's head.

"She is free. That was all I ever wanted for her," he whispered solemnly before rising to his feet and staring down at his brother. "You do not understand, Philippe. You do not understand love." His words were bitter and he knew that regret would soon follow them, but at this moment Raoul did not care. His silence had been bought by the prospect of Christine's happiness. He knew now that he would never be able to accept her decision, but he would never betray her confidence.

Striding to the door, he missed the slightest of grimaces twitch on Philippe's face—the tiniest glimpse of emotion that he seldom showed—before he suddenly stopped, his hand resting on the open door.

Though wanting to look back and apologise, Raoul simply stood there, lingering in between rooms before inhaling deeply, feeling his pride slowly returning to him. "I think I shall send her flowers," he said to the empty corridor. "Yellow roses."

o0o

The heavy pattering of rain did not cease overnight and soon a small storm began to rage over the streets of Paris, its fierce winds scattering leaves and branches about the roads as sections of pavement were submerged in water. Many avoided venturing outside, opting instead to stay inside the protecting nature of their homes and perhaps sit by the fire, waiting impatiently for the storm to pass.

It was not advised to travel, especially on foot, yet Erik found the weather inconsequential next to the storm that had begun to gather in his heart. Christine's welfare was his highest priority and now he set out, risking his own health to ensure hers. Was this what love was?

The scarf wrapped tightly around his head was unpleasant, its wet fibres sinking into whatever patches of his skin were visible. The cheap material scratched and rubbed incessantly at his face, yet every time he came close to ripping it from him and letting it drown in a puddle at his feet, he remembered his little love and how she was depending on him to come to her. This thought alone drove him forward, through the slight wreckage of the streets, ignoring the hellish feeling of water seeping into his shoes as he came ever closer to the Rue Saint-Honoré.

Had it been under other circumstances, Erik could have imagined that he was now returning to his own home and into the arms of his lovely wife. But he knew better than to think of such fantasies. After all it was delusions like this one that failed to ground him to reality.

Squinting, Erik looked up at the familiar outline of Christine's balcony through the heavy rain. The wind threatened to knock his thin frame over as he studied the distance to his goal. The short journey up usually took him no time at all, his years of running along the rafters at the Opéra making any other precarious climb seem like child's play. Yet as he stared at the slippery surfaces, he wondered if he would have difficulty in maintaining his grip.

All rational thought disappeared from his head, however, as soon as a flicker of light appeared beyond the balcony, the small pulse of the candle luring him in like a siren. The structure of the building was more trying to hold on to, but the adrenaline of being so close to her managed to give him the added strength to hoist himself over the balustrade.

His fingers eagerly reached for the handle, only to pause and instead rap his knuckles lightly on the glass. His eyes, blurry from the storm, took in the sight of the drawn curtains in front of him and a sudden stirring of worry flowed through him.

Impatiently, he waited as the rain continued to fall, each heavy droplet landing on his person like another beat of a fist until the creak of the door reached his ears.

A small hand edged its way out, its fingers recoiling slightly at the sensation of the cold rain and bitter gale before they latched onto the front of his coat and dragged him steadily into the light.

The sound of the door shutting behind him made him whirl around to see Christine leaning against the curtains, a black shawl draped loosely around her body.

A chill that ran up the length of his spine alerted Erik to the absence of a fire in the hearth, and he hastily gripped the shoulders of his mousy love, bringing her to him. "The fire is not lit, Christine. Why isn't the— _Oh_!" Remembering himself, he quickly tore away from her, his body shaking with guilt at the sight of tiny beads of water now glistening against her skin. Looking down at himself, he was tempted to curse his idiocy. "Forgive me!"

Wasting no time at all, he busied himself with stoking a fire until he had succeeded in flooding the room with warmth. Once satisfied, he rose to his feet and turned. A frown appeared beneath his mask as he realised that Christine had not moved, nor had she said anything since he had entered the room. "Christine, what's wrong?"

When she did not reply, Erik cautiously approached her and, forgetting momentarily about his damp clothes, roughly took her in his arms. The sudden jolt of those arms encircling her again was enough to breathe life back into her and she grabbed fistfuls of his cloak at the same time her head buried into his shoulder. She shivered when he held her tighter, the soaked material of his skirt wetting her cheek unpleasantly, but she did not care.

They stood there as the seconds slowly ticked by until Erik held her at arm's length and surveyed her carefully. Her face glistened slightly in the light of the fire and, gingerly, he reached into the folds of his jacket to bring out a dry handkerchief. Slowly, he wiped the damp from her skin and tilted her chin up with his finger only to see despair in her eyes.

"I am to blame for her death," she told him as irritation towards herself made her shift on the spot. "It is my fault for not doing more, for not being strong enough for Mamma."

"Christine, you are not to blame," he cried, shaking his head and daring to slide his finger across her jaw to hold her attention. "You are not to blame for her death. You are not a flawed human being. You are perfect."

"But I am not perfect, Erik!" she cried back, her voice impassioned by the woe of her guilt. A small tremor passed over her features before she shook her head and turned towards the fireplace, wrapping her arms around her body. "No one is perfect," she said, her tone softer now. "The sooner you start seeing that, the sooner you will learn to see yourself through my eyes."

Kneeling before the fire, Christine sighed as she heard Erik's sluggish footsteps drawing close behind her, each step a cautious decision, almost as if he was afraid of a reproach. And perhaps he had reason to assume such a thing, for she, herself, could not have predicted her next move at that moment.

She waited until she saw the flutter of black and white beside her, heard the gentle rubbing of linen against the floor and Erik's heavy whispers in her ear before she looked at him, a dullness hanging in the brown of her eyes.

"Am I truly not to blame?" she asked.

"How could you think that?" he insisted, never taking his determined gaze away from her. If she had become blind to the truth, then Erik felt responsible to make her see sense. "Did you not tell me that you did all that you could to help, whether that be preparing meals or completing menial, yet important, chores about this household?" Hesitantly, she nodded. "And were you not the one who defied the expectations of those women, even defying your own expectations in how far you were wiling to push yourself for your guardian's care?"

Christine opened and closed her mouth at a loss for words until she ran her hand over her face and pulled her shawl closer to her. "I still felt helpless, weak..."

"You are not weak, my dear," he said with a knowing smile, raising her chin once more so that she could see the truth in his eyes. His fingers moved to stroke her cheek and his heart leapt as she leaned into his tentative touch. "It is your strength, your good heart, that I fell in love with, Christine Daaé. Do not forget that."

Turning her face into his palm, she nuzzled his skin in thought before a grimace contorted her features. "I do not feel very strong."

"That is not to say your strength has left you." Cupping her face with both hands, Erik stared at her in wonder. This woman held more power over him in her little finger than monarchs had over entire kingdoms. She had given him a purpose to his life and had made him wish to atone for each of his sins, crying to the heavens until his voice became hoarse. Her strength was his strength, and whatever she felt lacking now, he was obliged to return to her.

"You have seen yourself through hardships before," he continued, "why should this one be any different?"

Tears filled her already misty eyes and before he could utter another word, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. Erik's hands dropped to his lap as they parted but was pleased to see the ghost of a smile on her mouth.

"I want you to see something," she told him then, shuffling over to the chair, her little hands groping between the sides until she recovered an object—it was something that Erik had never seen before in her possession. "It was my mother's," she explained, sitting back down beside him as she presented the cross in her palm, her fingers spread wide in a retaliation. "Do you remember the day that was meant to be our wedding day? How we rode and rode and finally I had you stop and you told me we were on this very street? When I spoke to Mamma then, she gave me this. She told me to keep it as a reminder of God and, for a long time, I did. I even made certain that you would not see it for I did not wish for your anger." She peered down at her hand. "It is such a little thing, after all. But now the mere sight of it discourages me. Even now, as we speak, I can feel it searing my flesh." A laugh escaped her, short and slow. "How mad I sound."

How mad, indeed, Erik thought as he sat so rigidly that he trembled at her words, white hot anger flowing through his veins, fuelling an urge to snatch the object from her hand and be rid of it. It was the cause of her distress, of her slip from sanity, and he wanted it gone from their sight before she fell deeper into its spell.

"I... I even thought about casting it into the flames and watching it burn," she said, feeling as though she was confessing before the fires of Hell. "But how could I? After everything you have said, I have something to prove to myself, and this isn't the answer."

His eyes softened, his hand unfurling to slide over hers and wrap her fingers around the cross. "Erik has strayed from the path his whole life. The longer you wander, the more lost you are, and Erik thought himself lost until he met you. Your faith is precious, Christine, as is your integrity and your want to do good. You are many things, but you are not a lost soul."

"How can you be so certain of that?" she murmured, bringing the cross close to her, cradling it as if it were a babe. "What could possibly have made you speak such words?"

She turned to him with a look that would have brought him to his knees if he hadn't already been kneeling. Tilting his head, he sighed and simply answered, "You."

Swallowing her indignations, she laid the cross down before them and quickly turned to bury herself against Erik's shirt, not caring when the dampness of his clothes made her shiver once more. He held her close, sweeping his lips and fingers over her hair, and, for only the third time in her life, she fell asleep in his arms.


	30. Chapter 30

Like a child, Erik had hoped that Christine would recover in the morning and that perhaps her ailment was brought on by the weather—the disappearance of one would coincide with the other. But when the rains stopped and the winds had died to an occasional breeze, Christine's melancholy still remained. He had stayed with her the entire night, watching like a diligent protector for any sign of her stirring amidst the loud ruckus outside and the creaking of old structures under the strength of the storm. Thankfully, she did not wake once, but Erik was struck on more than one occasion by a frequent murmur coming from her in the depths of her sleep. Incoherent words in sharp whispers had made her restless as she tossed and turned.

In the morning, when Erik had questioned her about her behaviour, she had said that she had no memory of such a thing and chided him on his lack of sleep. "You were likely imagining me talking," she told him, but he was not convinced.

Haplessly, he followed her about the house, taking care not to run into Mme Dumas, who graciously busied herself with her chores downstairs. For Christine's sake, he would not want to deal with the aftermath of such an encounter. When Christine did finally decide to drag herself out of her room and trudge to the kitchen, however, Erik lingered at the top of the landing. The voices of the two women were lost to him and so the soft padding of feminine feet upon the stairs was like music to his ears as he saw his beloved slowly appear once more.

With her nightgown askew, her hair in disarray and only a teacup in her hand, Erik smiled, trailing into her bedchamber after her. He leaned against the closed door as he watched her take a small sip.

"I shall leave you to get dressed for today," he said, pushing himself to his feet and towards the shutters, but the sound of her voice stopped him.

"There is no need," she mumbled and he turned just in time to see her climbing back into bed, the cup nestled in her hands.

"What do you mean?" he immediately asked, taking a small step forward.

She sighed wearily and lowered her cup. "I simply do not feel like dressing today. I have nowhere to go, after all."

"No," he sputtered slowly but in agreement. He stared at her for a long while, debating whether this was peculiar behaviour or not. He was never quite able to tell in some cases.

She emitted a languid sigh as she rolled her shoulders before she took another sip of tea and placed it on the bedside table. Her hand ran through her hair, not to comb out the curls that had become knotted in the night, but as a silent gesture that indicated her unhappiness. Erik had long since been able to spot this little quirk of hers and it only made him more uneasy.

He took another step forward and then another and another until he could wrap his fingers around one of the bottom bedposts. Flickering his gaze to the wood, he was briefly reminded of their shared moment not two days ago when her fingers had been the ones wrapped around it. He looked at her then, seeing her eyelids droop, but not in tiredness, and asked, "Erik has not done anything wrong?"

"No, no, of course not. You have been a wonderful comfort to me," she reassured him, rolling onto her side and glancing at him through strands of thick hair. "Do not blame yourself every time I am upset. I do not like it."

Taking her words to heart, he nodded before sliding down onto the edge of the bed. His fingers twitched, aching to entwine with hers, but he refrained and resolved himself to clutching the cover to still his want. "Should you... Should you not get dressed?" he asked timidly.

"I have nowhere to be," she repeated quietly, glancing down at her white sheets. "I think perhaps I shall sleep some more. Rest seems to make everything appear brighter."

"Yes..." he agreed solemnly, noting the way her voice had dwindled off into a whisper and the frown that had appeared on her face. Shrinking from her side, he pulled the covers up around her and kissed her temple. "I hope things do look brighter upon your waking," he told her earnestly. "I will let you sleep, then, and shall return in a few hours."

o0o

How hopeful he had been when returning later that evening, how expectant he was to see a smile on her lips and a liveliness in her eyes... But how wrong he had been to hope.

He found Christine in the same fetal position as before; the sadness in her eyes was now undeniable to him. He flew to her side, kneeling beside her in a fit of worry, his hands frantic in their examination of her body. Heat began to radiate off her forehead and a thin layer of sickly sweat was beginning to gather on her skin.

Tears sprang to his eyes as she clung to him, her arms fierce and tight around his neck as though she had just awoken from a nightmare and was not certain whether or not he was real. His arms had encircled her and pulled her to him, holding her close as she had done to him on many occasions. And for her, he knew he had to be strong. He could no longer rely on the resounding strength of the woman in his arms to pull them through.

Swallowing his fears, Erik stayed vigilant, alternating between staring at her and fetching anything that she might need, but ultimately rejected. The glass by her head remained full and the plate of food he had snatched from the kitchen away from the beady eyes of Mme Dumas also remained untouched. And she would not sleep. As the hours ticked by and the afternoon turned to a purple dusk, Mme Dumas left for the night, mumbling a 'goodnight' to Christine through her door. She had not replied and Erik was now certain that she had not even heard her.

Her words were incoherent, her body kept telling her she was hot one minute and then cold the next, and Erik was almost beside himself with worry. All he could do was watch and wait and hope and that was not nearly enough for him. Whatever was happening to his beloved had happened swiftly, but what terrified him the most was the fact that it was beyond both his knowledge and his control.

With a kiss to her slick forehead and a moment to secure the lock on her bedchamber door, Erik fled into the night, carrying his anxieties like one who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Though he was opposed to leaving her alone in her condition, he saw no other alternative than to send for help. A doctor would have been apt, a wise and sensible choice, but without a realistic guise to mask his face at the moment—an unconscious doctor would have been most inconvenient—and his severe distrust in anyone he did not know, he was left with one other alternative. The Persian.

With his glaring mask covered by only the rim of his hat, Erik was forced to travel in shadow and down routes that deterred his otherwise frantic speed. In his haste, and his unfocused state, he almost ran into a man as he rounded a sharp corner, only managing to narrowly avoid an unpleasant collision by quickly slipping back against the wall. A curse left his mouth as he berated himself for being so careless. There was no excuse for it.

Pulling his cloak tighter to his body did nothing to fight off the cold air against his skin as he finally neared his destination. With a gritting of his teeth, he surveyed the darkened street from a secluded alcove, his eyes darting to any source of movement, checking for signs of danger, before glancing up.

Not a single flicker of light poured out of the windows of the Persian's apartment and Erik, who was not about to linger on the pavement like a vagrant, swore that he would complete his task with or without a formal invitation into the man's home.

Gaining entry to the dreary apartment took more time than Erik had anticipated, the tremor that still claimed his hands a deterrence in his work. But as the reassuring sound of the door unlocking reached his ears, a moment of calm washed over him, relaxing his taut muscles and agitated mind.

In darkness, he worked, collectedly and with a precision he had not exercised in months as he rummaged through drawers, his well-adjusted eyes aiding him in his search for hiding places. Shelves were ransacked, papers strewn, cabinets searched, and still he found nothing. Growing frustrated at his incompetence, he ran his fingers along wooden surfaces, checking the likelihood of a secret compartment he may have missed in his plundering. Although, in truth, he thought that fit of engineering far beyond the Persian's capabilities.

A meek, little creak on the other side of the apartment door alerted him that he was not alone.

His task forgotten, he repositioned his cloak around his body, his eyes glinting in the shadows he hid in as he waited for the stranger to pass by. But they did not. They seemed to linger by the threshold, shifting their weight heavily from foot to foot and causing the floorboards to creak even more. When the doorknob turned and a familiar silhouette cautiously stood at the entrance, Erik felt a wave of relief and anger ebb through him.

"Another second and you would have been a dead man."

A startled cry escaped Nadir's mouth as he sought to recover from hearing that voice greet him. Closing the door behind him, he refrained from lighting the gas lamp that sat just a short reach away as a shiver ran down his spine. Many a night he had dreamt that he was alone in his apartment, alone save for that voice, taunting him, having come to end his life once and for all. They were foolish nightmares, the lot of them.

Straightening his jacket, Nadir turned and reached for the matches, his breathing shakily uneven, even through his attempts at keeping a calm disposition. "What are you doing here, Erik?" he muttered, relaxing slightly as he turned the gas up. "You have never barged into my home like this before."

A scowl formed beneath the mask just as Erik stepped into the edge of the light. "You have something that I need," he said. "But it would appear that you have improved your ability to hide things from me."

At this, Nadir faced his intruder, running a hand over his beard. "What do I have that you could possibly see fit to try to steal at this time of night?"

An irritated sigh filled Nadir's ears as Erik glanced off into the shadows, his eyes sharp and ever searching. "Your medicinal supplies," he answered curtly, turning his head back towards him. "Where are they?"

Leaning one fist on his hip and the tips of his fingers on the table in front of him, Nadir tried to make sense of what he was being asked. "My medicinal supplies? Why could you possibly want them? You... Erik, you do not want these for your own... personal use, do you?"

No sooner had the words left his mouth than his back collided with the wall in a violent thud. The lapels of his coat were fisted in Erik's hands, whose eyes burned into his own. "Do not test me, old man," he growled. "Now, will you tell me where you have hidden them or will I have to find other means of extracting the information?"

His tone was strained and a nervous energy radiated off of him; Nadir seemed to lean into the comforting hardness of the wall behind him just to add a little more distance between them. "I do not take lightly to being threatened in my own home, Erik," he warned, suddenly wary of the crazed look in those black eyes.

With a final shove, Erik released him and stepped back, a string of expletives on his tongue. "I need them," he exclaimed bitterly.

Though still doubtful over Erik's intentions, Nadir merely sighed. "We have established that. Do you mind telling me _why_ you need them? Perhaps then shall I be able to help you."

A moment of silence passed between them before a hunch claimed Erik's shoulders and Nadir could not remember a time when he had looked so defeated. "She is ill, daroga."

"Mademoiselle Daaé?" he murmured, coming away from the wall. "What has brought this on?"

"I do not know!" he cried, suddenly incapable of remaining in one spot. "She is... hysterical, prone to fits of crying, speaking nonsense and she will not— _cannot_ —sleep. The fever... it troubles me." He would not help but linger on the possibility that he had been the cause of her illness. After all, he had been careless the night before, allowing her to rest against his wet clothing for such a long period of time. "I have already left her alone for longer than I had anticipated and since I am on the verge of stringing your neck up on that rafter above your head, I think it would be wise if you were to tell me where your supplies are. And quickly, if you value your own skin."

The threat, though malicious, ran bare and Nadir was able to see a flicker of fear beneath it. Never, in all his days, had he witnessed a shred of trepidation in his masked acquaintance and, frankly, this alone frightened him more than any past threat on his life ever had. With a brisk nod, he scurried away down the hallway, casting an anxious glance back over his shoulder before Erik disappeared from view. In that state, Nadir did not want to agitate him further.

When he returned, his approach was slow but steady and a reasonably large bottle was in his hand, its dark contents swilling within, immediately catching the eye of the one who sought it. "Laudanum," Nadir said, setting it down on the table only for it to be snatched right back up again. "It is all I have, but it should allow her to sleep." A silence ensued, and then, "If you are so concerned, then why do you not send for a doctor?" But Erik did not reply, he simply brushed past him and headed towards the door. "At least allow me to go with you."

A curt nod was Nadir's reply before a bony hand was once again wrapping itself around his coat and he was being dragged out of his apartment. Unprepared for the sudden excursion, Nadir found himself lagging behind his companion, who did not hold back voicing his displeasure at being slowed down. Nadir endured this as he attempted to pry more information about Christine's condition out of him. He received little, but he was glad of the surge in sane communication.

The cold air felt unpleasant against his face and Nadir resorted to hurrying across the pavements and alleyways as he held the collar of his coat close to his throat. At times, he almost lost sight of Erik, his black ensemble blending into their surrounding scenery and it unnerved him how his friend had never seemed to lose his ghostly countenance.

After Erik had slowed to a stop in front of a door, as unfamiliar to Nadir as the street, it was only a matter of moments before he was being ushered inside. No part of the house seemed to be lit or heated—it did not feel as though they were out of the night air—and Nadir scratched his thick beard slowly, his eyes flitting about the veiled room, not in curiosity, but in unease at stepping foot into a house uninvited. He opened his mouth to speak but was silenced by the slight creak of the stairs on the other side of the room, indicating Erik's swift exit. Not wanting to dawdle, he followed haste and stood at the threshold of the only open door, a grimace on his mouth at what he saw.

Dressed in only her nightgown and a shawl that hung loosely around her back, Christine stood on the small balcony, her long hair unpinned and wafting in the bitter breeze. She faced away from them and Nadir cast Erik a wary glance before watching him hurry over to her.

"Christine?" he murmured with a tenderness that Nadir had never heard before. "What are you doing out here? Please, my love, come back inside." One of his hands gingerly reached out to brush away a strand of hair on her face. The tips of his fingers barely touched her skin, but it was enough to make her head turn sharply towards him.

"Erik?" she said brokenly, encasing his hand roughly. "You... were gone. Where did you go? You left me. You said you would never leave me and yet you did. Why?"

"I'm sorry, Christine, I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair as she curled her body against his own, wrapping her little arms around him tightly. "Erik did not mean to leave you."

Averting his eyes from the small, intimate scene in front of him, Nadir noticed the bottle of laudanum at his feet, apparently put there by Erik before entering. Quietly, he picked it up and went to prepare an appropriate dosage. When he returned, the doors to the balcony were closed and Christine was in bed as Erik attempted to cease her restlessness. Within seconds, the glass was snatched from his hand and Erik was back at her side, resting one knee on the sheets as he supported the back of her head, tilting it back as he lifted the liquid to her lips.

As he watched, Nadir felt a warping of reality behind the lids of his eyes, a sudden shifting of perception, as though he were in a dream. And truly, he did not feel certain that he was awake for never in his years had he seen such diligent caring at Erik's hands.

"Allow me to keep an eye on her tonight," Nadir offered when his masked friend did not move from his uncomfortable position; his neck was no doubt suffering the stiffness of his tension filled body.

"You?" he snapped, though his tone was lacklustre, drained. "I would not trust you to watch a kettle."

"Erik—"

"You saw her, daroga," he continued, not raising his voice above a murmur lest he disturb the woman below him. Again, his hand rose to brush strands of her hair from her face and Nadir was almost touched at the sight. "She would not like it if she were to wake up and I was not there."

"And you will not be any use to her in this state," Nadir responded. "When was the last time you slept?"

"I do not need sleep. All I need is for her to be well again. Stop pestering me or I shall throw you out."

Nadir crossed his arms and leaned his back against the door, his eyes closing as he finally began to warm up. "I dare say you haven't the strength." A quip such as that would have dealt him a heavy hand in the past, but Nadir knew just how weary his friend was and how hard he strove to hide it. "There is a fire and I will be here to stoke it," he continued when Erik did not make so much as a glare in his direction, "and I will see to any of her needs if she does not sleep through the entire night."

A long while passed before Erik sighed and began to rise from the bed, his head still turned down towards Christine. As much as he hated to admit it, Nadir was right: he hadn't the strength to see her through another restless night. In order to protect her, he had to be at the peak of his abilities and though he would have liked to forego sleep, it was unavoidable.

"I will return in the morning," he said, almost to Christine herself, before facing Nadir with his jaw clenched. "If I find out that anything has gone askew, if she is distressed or upset in any way, you will be the one to answer for it."

Nadir nodded like a schoolboy who had heard this speech a hundred times before, yet obediently took each one as though it were the first. After which, he followed Erik to the door and remained there even after the click of his shoes on the pavement outside disappeared. It paid to be cautious.

Sluggishly, he then made his way back up the stairs and he could only hope that Erik would honour his word and would indeed rest. Entering Christine's bedchamber, he took note of her peaceful form and silently carried the armchair over to her bedside. There, he collapsed into its comforting embrace and removed his jacket in slow, lethargic movements. He knew then that he would not sleep that night.

Yet, he remained watchful of Christine's sleeping figure and wary of his own drooping eyelids. Curiously, he let his mind wander to her behaviour when they had first arrived. Her gestures had been frantic, not at all her usual quietly restrained self, her sentences were clipped and her tone... Why, her manner of speech had reminded him of Erik, and that was a troubling thought indeed. He wondered if Erik was having a negative effect on the poor girl's health.

On through the night Nadir went, with only his thoughts for company, and as more time came to pass, the more troubled he became. When dawn began to break and he rose to open the curtains, letting the first of the sun's rays into the room, he heard a soft moan behind him. Immediately he spun around and returned to his seat, waiting for Christine to awaken properly.

Not expecting to be met by sunlight, her eyes initially struggled to open and Nadir was reminded of a newborn about to see the world for the first time. "Mo... Monsieur Khan?" she grumbled, her voice laden with sleep as she raised her head and pulled the covers closer to her body. "What... What are you doing here? Where is Erik? Is he all right?"

"I think the better question here is are you all right?" he asked, leaning forward with an outstretched hand to quieten her down. "Are you in need of anything?"

"No, thank you. I am well," she answered, frowning.

"Is that the truth?" he asked incredulously. Although her pallor was a more encouraging sight than the previous night, her cheeks were still lacking their usual bloom. Dark circles rested beneath her heavy eyes and yet she looked as refreshed as she could be.

Christine sighed and gazed down at her lap, suddenly wishing to go back to sleep. "Partially," she told him honestly. "But I am feeling better than I have been. I do not know what is wrong with me."

"Hmm," Nadir murmured, threading his fingers together and wishing he could excuse himself to splash some cold water on his skin. "It is a shared opinion."

Not dwelling on his words for that would surely have cause for her to be upset, she raised her head to look at her companion. Her eyes skimmed over his appearance and how downtrodden he looked. She wondered if he had slept in that chair all night. "What are you doing here?"

"I supplied the laudanum that helped you rest," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand towards the empty glass on her bedside table.

"Oh," Christine whispered, turning to peer at the glass she could not recall in her memory. "Thank you, but forgive me... I do not remember you arriving last night. I hope I was not too much of a nuisance."

"A nuisance is not something I would call you," he told her with a hint of a smile on his lips.

Christine's own mouth began to curl up until a thought occurred to her. "You did stay here through the night, didn't you? Where was Erik? And where is he now?"

"In truth, I did not trust Erik in his state of mind," he answered, not sparing her from the facts. "Your condition nearly sent him over the edge and I feared what he might do if you became any worse. Once you began to quieten, I convinced him to return to the Opéra. I can only hope that he is, indeed, there and resting." His eyes appraised her sickly appearance once more. "Have you any idea what may have caused your illness? Forgive me, I only ask for I worry that your confinement with Erik has done more harm than good."

"You think my time with Erik has taken a toll on my health?" she said slowly, the words sounding foreign and unpleasant on her tongue. Not wanting to appear meek, she sat up further, even as she struggled to keep her weight from collapsing back onto the sheets beneath her. "How could you say such a thing? I do not understand exactly what it is that you are insinuating."

"I have known Erik for a long time," was his gentle reply. "I know his mind—what little of it he has allowed me to see, that is. Has he divulged to you any of his time in Persia?"

"He—" Christine bit her lip and debated quietly whether or not she should reveal to Nadir that she knew about his little boy. Deciding against it, she simply shook her head.

Raising an eyebrow, Nadir nodded and slumped into the armchair. "He has said nothing of what his employment entailed?"

"No."

"Then he has retained some ounce of sense," he muttered, almost to himself. "I will not go into detail, but I will say that Erik's actions in the past were abominable. Some may have been beyond his control, but he knew well what he was getting into and for a long time he did not care. Some of his actions had, shall we say, a long lasting effect on the minds of men. I don't know whether you truly realise just what he is capable of."

A grimace crossed her face as a sharp pain ran through her chest. Her lips parted in confined vexation and she clenched her jaw to stop from shouting. "I am certain of it, but he is much changed now. You have seen this change for yourself. It does not excuse what he has done in the past, I know, but we cannot presently put him at fault for those actions. He shall never escape them, otherwise! I have seen how his past still haunts him, how his memories taunt him. What do you think it means for a grown man to sometimes shrink from a simple touch?" Pressing her hand to her forehead, she closed her eyes in remembrance, a lop-sided grin spreading across her lips. "Once I realised I cared for him, he was so gentle. You should have seen him then, Nadir. Like a spring lamb, he was, and so happy, so, so _happy._ And, for a while, there were no incidents and we lived like normal people." She laughed. "But... But then there was the time when..."

"Go on," Nadir pressed.

"He returned one night covered in blood." Even now, she could still remember the smell of it. "I am not certain what happened to him that night, what he may have done and to whom, but neither is _he_ certain. I was so afraid and confused and suddenly everything that we had accomplished, all the good I thought I was bringing to him... vanished."

"You lost hope. And now it is your faith that you have lost," he concluded with a slight nod of his head and when Christine faced him, the look in her eyes almost broke him. "Erik told me on the way here," he explained.

"My faith is not lost, it is simply shaken," she murmured as her fingers fiddled with the sleeve of her nightgown. "Everything appears convoluted and without purpose at the moment, but Erik was certainly not responsible for that," she insisted. "I have just experienced a very personal loss."

"Ah," Nadir sighed, feeling the fool to have questioned her so thoughtlessly. "My deepest condolences. I should have just let you rest." With a smile, Christine reassured him otherwise. "Are you certain, then, that Erik has done nothing wrong?"

"Most definitely."

"And if he had?"

Her fingers caught the frayed edges of her hair. "I love him," she said with as much conviction as she could muster, as if it was the only thing that mattered, the only words that could make a difference. But she knew there was more to it. "I cannot continue to ponder on the path my life _could_ have taken. Who can say what I would have done?—stayed with him and fought until neither of us could stand the sight of one another, continued on as before but never forgetting, or I would have simply left him. He would never hurt me, Nadir, despite your doubts. He would die before that would happen. However, I am not blind to what he has done. He has done terrible things, I know, and I cannot forgive him for killing innocent men, even those less than innocent... But I can love him."

"I feared as much," he said, his voice unnaturally quiet with timidity.

"Feared? Why should love be something to fear?"

"It is not love itself; it is what it can do. I am merely troubled by your words. I do not mean to distress you at such early hours in the morning, and Heaven knows I will be served a penance for it, but I must be allowed to speak."

Though her sudden shifting would have indicated an unease in the conversation, Christine eventually nodded, allowing Nadir to say what he wanted.

"Thank you," he said, his words merging with a languid sigh. "Forgive me for what I am about to suggest, but could it be your affection for him that has held a veil over your eyes, that has somehow made you tolerant of his crimes?"

Christine stared at him as one corner of her mouth rose into a sad smile, a reflection of her twisted heart. "I do not pretend to be ignorant of what he has done," she repeated quietly, her voice steady and without hesitation or tremor. "Nor do I want to become tolerant. He nearly had me convinced that my love would be enough to save him, but I think I knew all along that it could never be enough. I could not change who he was, who he _is_ ; no matter what I did to help."

"And yet... you stay."

"Yes," she murmured, turning her head away to glance out the window. Somewhere in the distance, a bird was singing. "I stay."

o0o

Although he complied with the daroga's request to leave, resting was the last thing on Erik's mind. How could he sleep when _she_ could not? But he had to believe, he told himself, that the laudanum would help to ease away her pain. Her _pain._ It was not a concept he could quite comprehend without fearing the worst. And he could not fear the worst. For both their sakes, he could not lose his mind over mere possibilities.

Grief was something he knew all too well, and he hated seeing it hover over Christine like an irrepressible storm. He wished he had the power to take away her grief, to have it somehow transfer onto him so that he could allow it to fester and swell. Alas, he had no such power and all that he was left with was an irrefutable feeling of weakness. This situation, how Christine was feeling, it was everything he sought to control, but could not, and he did not like that. Without that knowing security, he was lost.

Anxiously, he paced around his empty home, despising the deafening echo of his shoes hitting the ground. Had his footsteps always been this loud? Desperate for something to fill that silence, he sat at the piano and played until his music began to reflect his frustration. With a growl, he tore his hands away from the instrument and threaded his fingers through his hair.

For hours, he did nothing but drift from one room to another, sitting, reading, playing, yet never fully resting. It was understandable then, that Erik, exhausted and half drugged on fatigue, did not register the sound of the siren to be real at first. Briefly, he thought his mind was playing a trick on him. It would not have been the first time that had happened. But no, the siren was very much real, and she was calling to him.

As he swayed on his feet and strode into one of his black tunnels, he numbly wondered if it was Nadir coming to tell him that Christine had died in the night. As he drew closer, however, he began to see a lantern burning in the distance and, even in his weary state, he could see how the light flickered, how the flame trembled in fear.

This was not Nadir.

His heart began to thud even as his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. The scuffling of shoes against the cobbled ground indicated that the intruder was alone. Good, he thought, this would be over with swiftly.

With darkness as his cover, Erik was able to sneak up on his unsuspecting victim and slip the agile piece of catgut around his neck. The lantern fell to the ground and, a second later, so did the now limp body.

Erik released the breath he did not know that he had been holding and gracelessly slid down onto the ground, kicking the heavy legs of the man out of his way as he cradled his own head in his hands. He could not remember the last time he had felt so... tired.

Perhaps it was entirely morbid, sitting there with the corpse, but he could not find the strength to move either it or himself. The minutes passed and as he finally began to regain his senses, he stole a glance at the blank face that stared up at him. Edging closer, Erik swung the lantern's dying glow nearer to the body and almost dropped it as his eyes drank in the sight of a uniform. A gendarme.

" _Merde_."


	31. Chapter 31

Sunlight poured in through the kitchen window and warmed Nadir's hand as he sat at the table, unrolling his sleeves. Minding her own business, Mme Dumas strolled about the room with the brisk ease of one who never minded rising before the cock's crow. But even just watching her was tiring, Nadir thought, bustling to and fro like an always turning cog in a well-oiled machine. Explaining his presence in this house had been daunting and Nadir had felt as though he had overstepped a boundary. The woman was courteous enough, though he suspected that she would be having a word with her new mistress about him after he had left. He did, however, fall victim to a sharp word or two when he began to nibble on a piece of fruit and she had bustled him out of the way, telling him to sit down or leave. Nadir had to smile at this.

His eyes followed her about the brightening room as she prepared breakfast and fetched a small silver tray. "Allow me to carry that up for you," he offered as she set the tray down in front of him.

Doubt and astonishment crossed her reddened features, but she eventually relented to the strange man's request, only too eager to lessen the strain on her back.

Once the tray was properly prepared, Nadir nodded his head in gratitude to Mme Dumas and walked up the stairs. From the kitchen doorway, she watched him with the scrutiny of one who was supervising a newly appointed, yet inexperienced, helper. She could only hope that he did not drop the poor girl's meal. The man looked as though he was ready to collapse.

Not too long afterwards, there was a knock at the front door. Leaning on the window sill, Mme Dumas tried to spy the culprit, but she could not see so much as a stopped carriage on the street outside. Even in the early hours of the morning, Paris did not rest. Wiping her hands on her apron, she tutted as another knock sounded before removing the garment and reaching up to vainly touch her swept up hair. When everything was in its proper place, she hurried to the door and opened it.

Her eyebrows raised when she was met with the sight of a young man carrying a large rectangular box in his arms. He gave a sigh of relief at not having to wait any longer in the cold before carefully handing the box over. "For the lady of the house, though you might want to put those in some water," he said, tipping his hat to her. "Good day."

Mme Dumas poked her head out onto the street to watch him go before turning her attention to the wrapped parcel in her hands. Closing the door, she returned to the kitchen, laid the box out on the table and saw that a small card was attached to the front. Lifting it to her face, she saw the words, 'Little Lotte, with love, Raoul de Chagny' sprawled across one side, and the name of the local florist on the other. Not one to speculate, she popped the card down and lifted the lid. Inside were a dozen primed yellow roses. Pulling back the sheer paper that covered them, she then went about filling an empty vase with water before arranging the roses within it. Once satisfied with her work, she replaced the card and sauntered up the stairs.

"Mademoiselle?" she called into the room after knocking.

"Come in," came the young woman's voice, drained as it sounded. Precariously balancing the vase in one hand, Mme Dumas reached for the handle and entered, her eyes flitting between Monsieur Khan, who stood overlooking the balcony with his arms folded, and the untouched tray of food on Christine's lap.

"These just arrived for you, Mademoiselle," she announced brightly, lowering the bouquet towards the young woman's face just as Nadir turned to look in.

"How lovely," Christine said, a charming smile gracing her lips as she cupped the blooms with her fingers and brought them to her nose. Aromatic, and velvet to the touch, she continued to caress the rose petals, even as her eyes drank in the sight of the Vicomte's signature. What a dear, sweet man, she thought to herself. "Would you put them on my dresser, please?"

Nodding, Mme Dumas glanced briefly at Nadir as she passed before setting down the vase next to the mirror, her hands quickly rearranging one or two roses to make the display more pleasing to the eye. She then turned to Christine and frowned her disapproval at the full tray. "You have not touched your breakfast."

An apologetic smile showed behind the strands of hair that had fallen across her face. Pulling them back behind her ears, Christine peered down at the array of foods and said, "I know, and everything looks wonderful. I was just speaking with Monsieur Khan and I did not yet have the chance to start."

Mme Dumas' frown was immediately redirected towards the man in question, her lips pursed as she sighed. "Well, then," she began in a cheerfully deceptive manner, "I do hope that Monsieur Khan does not keep you from your breakfast any more than he kept me from preparing it."

Christine's hand rose to silence a muffled giggle at the woman's quick tongue, while Nadir simply lifted his hands in surrender. "Perish the thought, Madame," he said as she left.

As soon as the door had closed, Christine tilted her head to the side and lowered her hand to the tray. "Do not mind her, Nadir."

"But she is right," he admitted, running his fingers over his beard. "I do not wish to keep you from your meal."

"You are not," she insisted, sipping some of the warm tea that had been calling to her. She wound her fingers around the cup and brought it close to her face, relaxing as the delicious vapours filled her nose. "Besides, I am enjoying your company," she added, looking down into the cup. "Although, I must admit, it is rather strange to be alone in your company after spending so much time with..." Her face fell. "Do you think he will return soon, Nadir?"

"I hope so," he replied, suppressing the need to see to his aching muscles, and laughed. "I do not think I have had a formal rest in over a day."

Christine did not share in his mirth and instead allowed herself to be overwhelmed by her own sobriety. "I apologise, Nadir. I really do," she said, her eyes downcast. "Erik did not need to drag you here in the middle of the night."

"That was probably the least disconcerting thing he has ever concerned me with," he told her truthfully.

Setting her cup down, Christine hummed distractedly. "But you did not have to stay."

"Ah, but if I could have done more, I would have. Christine, I see it as my duty to make certain your wellbeing is in order."

"Then you have a very dull duty," she teased half-heatedly, but smiled when Nadir shared in her teasing words. "I am curious, though, why exactly did he turn to you?"

"He knew I could supply him with something that would help you rest," he answered, looking down at his lap, not wishing to divulge the true reason Erik knew he would have the laudanum; that ever since he fled Persia, he had been prone to many sleepless nights and being kept awake by horrific memories.

The tea was soon finished, along with a small amount of porridge, but Christine eventually pushed the bowl away, her stomach churning at the thought of consuming any more of the thickly textured gloop. Though her spirits remained dampened, a speckle of colour had started to return to her round cheeks, much to Nadir's delight, but she still did not make any move to rise from her bed.

"Will you not consider heading out, Christine? It is proving to be a lovely day despite the cold, and I am certain lying there will not help matters." His voice was soft and caring and when Christine looked up at him in that moment, she was reminded so much of her father.

Tears filled her bloodshot eyes as she shook her head. "I just want to sleep," she whispered brokenly, and so he relented.

Pacing the floor of her parlour some time later, Nadir flapped his hands agitatedly behind his back, his shoes surely wearing away the floor beneath him with their repetitive shuffling. Where was Erik? The question ran through his being like a mantra, the only thing driving his body to continue functioning and not drop to the floor there and then. In his mind, he called Erik all the names he would not dare say to his face, and did not stop pacing for another half hour.

It was only just beginning to grow dark when Erik did return, and Nadir would never forget the fright he had when opening Christine's bedchamber door to find that shadowy figure silhouetted in front of the glass doors.

Reigning in his terror, and biting down on his cheek to quieten any such sounds that could wake Christine, Nadir crept over the threshold with hesitancy in every step. These were the moments when he truly doubted the mortality of his peculiar friend. No _living_ being could move with such deadly silence.

"Erik," he whispered, choosing not to stray too far from the comfort of the open door. "How did you get in here?"

As soon as he spoke, Erik's head snapped up, his mouth twitching as though he had not seen or heard his approach at all. After a few long seconds, recognition finally glinted in his eyes and he raised a limp hand, directing it to the balcony behind him. Nadir was tempted to shake his head at his behaviour were it not for the visible tension in Erik's shoulders. It was enough to make Nadir remain with one hand firmly on the door handle.

"What kept you so late, my friend?" he asked nervously, his voice not reflecting the stoic stance his body had taken. When he received no reply, Nadir swallowed the lump in his throat and regarded the cloaked figure carefully. Erik's unnerving gaze was directed solely at Christine, who still slept, and Nadir was thankful to not be under such scrutiny.

"I... found myself... detained," came Erik's reply, his voice ragged and burdened with fatigue.

The state of that voice, so unlike how it should have been—so faint and weak. It was a mere murmur next to the wind outside and it bled through Nadir's ears, seeping into his mind. It was a tone he was not unfamiliar with, but one he had hoped never to hear again. Flashes of memories burned before his eyes of executions and blood—all delivered by the hand that had now curled itself around the bedpost—and a voice, strained, yet composed, even after the kill had been made.

"What happened, Erik?" Nadir feared having to ask the question more than the answer itself.

The cloak folded around the bedpost as he slumped against it, his fingers tightening around the wood as he whispered, "I should have taken her away when I had the chance. I should have taken her away."

"What are you talking about?" he said timidly before quickly peering out into the hallway to see if it was empty or not. "Come. Let us talk elsewhere... _away_ from Mademoiselle Daaé."

This notion seemed to sway Erik as he sluggishly turned towards him and traipsed out the room, Nadir following in his footsteps. With care, he closed the door behind them and ushered Erik to the end of the hall, away from the stairs and from the possibility of prying eyes.

Without delay, Erik regaled Nadir with what had occurred beneath the Opéra and when his eyes finally refocused on the older man's face, he did not miss the tremor that ran through his features.

"Are you sure it was just one?" Nadir finally asked him, pressing the tips of his fingers against his temples in an attempt to force his drained mind to focus. "Perhaps there is no need for concern."

"When there is one, there are many," Erik muttered cryptically.

Nadir glanced towards the stairs before turning back and lowering his voice to ask, "Did you... dispose of the body properly?"

Without the slightest hint of hesitation, Erik's expression darkened and he replied, "No. I have decided to use him as my new doormat. You think that ill-advised?"

Nadir released a shaky breath before glaring at his companion. "I never could take your dreadful sense of humour, Erik."

"Then perhaps you should not invite it with your idiotic questioning!" he snarled, bringing his hands behind his back to stop himself from wringing the man's neck. His fingers dug painfully into the skin on his hands and yet he remained silent, thinking instead on the repercussions of tonight's events and how he should proceed from here. He bowed his head as his thoughts turned to his beloved. "I should have taken her away," he repeated, almost inaudibly.

At this, Nadir's expression softened. "Why? Surely there is no immediate danger, and she is still recovering. You must not attempt to move her until she is better," he added, wary of his friend's rashness and unpredictability.

"And how long will that take?" Erik challenged. "A week? A month? Two? By then it could be too late."

"Christine has to fight this on her own," Nadir reasoned, feeling as though he was speaking to an irritable child. "You are not helping her by acting like this."

"Oh?" Behind the mask, he lifted one sardonic eyebrow. "And what exactly would help her? Gifts? Chocolates? Women like those, or so I am told," he sneered. "Perhaps she would prefer a normal suitor, one who would not think twice before doing these things for her. Unlike Erik. Erik did not think of these things. Yes, a proper suitor would do nicely. The young Vicomte, for example. Yes, let us bring him here so that he can help matters. Oh, wait a moment, he has already been here, hasn't he? The flowers... He gave her flowers."

Nadir allowed Erik's rant to come to an end before catching a glimpse of sadness in those black eyes. It was a rarity that Erik let his guard down around him. "Tell me what this is about," he encouraged gently, sensing there was more to his words than he was telling.

"I... I did not even think to give her flowers."

" _Erik_ ," he warned, hoping the use of his name would be enough to pull him out of his sudden melancholy state.

Looking up, Erik studied Nadir's tired eyes and aggravated stance before reaching his hand into his jacket pocket. Nadir watched as he drew out a folded piece of paper, which had clearly been balled up and torn in parts, and held it out for the taking. Hesitating only briefly before grasping it, Nadir tried his best to smooth out the rougher edges before bringing it closer to his face for inspection. But before his eyes could make out any of the words, they were drawn to the bottom of the page—the page that bared the official seal of the de Chagny family.

Nadir's head snapped up. "What is this?"

"That young gendarme had fortunately left it within the confines of his jacket... or perhaps __un__ _fortunately_ _._ I cannot decide which." Erik reached for the piece of paper and peered down at it, his lip curling downward in disdain. "It is a warrant of sorts, issued privately, I would imagine—Paris does not yet weep at the knowledge that it is still harbouring a monster, after all."

"And," Nadir began slowly with a constrictive exhale of breath, "you believe that the Vicomte is behind this?"

"The Vicomte, his brother... What does it matter? His _name_ is on that paper. As far as I am concerned, they are _all_ behind this."

"Very well," Nadir said dismissively, knowing that there was nothing he could have said to sway his friend's mind. "But you must promise me not to do anything rash, Erik. Do not attempt to return to the Opéra for longer than necessary or remove Christine from this house. The private nature of this case has bought you time and discretion. I beg you, do not use that time to endanger yourself, Christine or any member of the de Chagny family."

Silence filtered into the hallway before a tiny grunt slipped from Erik's mouth and a nod of reluctant agreement was directed at Nadir. The older gentleman could have smiled at the sight—it was seldom that his friend heeded his warnings.

"We shall talk more of this soon," he continued, straightening his jacket, "but, for now, it is well time I rest." After a moment's hesitation, he raised his hand and lightly grasped Erik's shoulder. "You should do the same, my friend."

He left shortly after that, not bidding a farewell to Erik, who seemed adrift in the house, his burdens gravely carrying him about the floor like a ghost.

Although Erik remained silent and hidden from Mme Dumas, there was nothing that could have silenced his mind. His thoughts whirled, forming new threads and outcomes that sank to the pit of his stomach. Had it not been for his strong will, he would have dashed straight to an open window and emptied its contents.

Only once did he leave the comfort of the walls around him and though he knew better than to leave Christine again, he merely wished to procure something for her, so that she might think better of him upon awakening.

Placing the gift on her bedside table, he made certain that her door was closed before shamelessly ripping the mask from his face and dropping it next to the item. His breathing hitched and a thousand reprimands flew through his already mangled mind before he gave into the temptation and slipped onto the bed, curling up at the edge. He did not dare to move any close to her, however, and his pitiful excuse of lying down in order to keep an eye on her condition only sought to drive him from her side. But the sight of her sleeping, with not a crease to ruin her smooth features, was too beautiful for his wretched eyes not to gaze upon.

And so he stayed. Throughout the entire night, he stayed, whispering words of encouragement and love to her, although he knew she could not hear him. But for Erik, it was enough.

o0o

Christine, however, could not remember when she had slept so peacefully. So often she had laid awake at night, wondering if she were solitarily sharing her guardian's final hours. But now that Mamma Valérius had passed, Christine's unrest had increased and any time that she spent alone had become unbearable. A burden was the last thing she had wished to be and yet she had turned into just that, relying on the strength of two men to pull her through.

Perhaps it was her fault, how she had become so dependent on Erik over the past few months, but she knew she would be entirely lost without him. She was so grateful for his presence ever since her guardian's passing, even if she did not act like it. With Erik by her side, she felt that she was able to find the strength within herself to survive this.

As she struggled to open her eyes, she felt Erik scramble to his feet.

She sighed deeply and gazed up at him, her face devoid of emotion until she frowned and closed her eyes again. Erik clenched his jaw and readied himself for a chiding, but, to his surprise, the only thing that he received was the sleep laden softness of her voice asking, "Why did you move?"

"What?" he said, rigid with disbelief at her nonchalance.

A half smile breached her face as she turned to lay on her back. "Come," she whispered, holding out an arm towards him.

He remained frozen to the spot for a while, tapping his fingers against his leg. With a sigh of surrender, however, he pathetically crawled onto the bed and allowed her to guide him into her arms. Drowsily, he burrowed into her as she wrapped herself around him, securing his place at her side and making sure that he would not move again. Contented, Christine relaxed and slipped into the warmth of his embrace.

Settling down, she tried not to think on how strangely domestic and sound it felt to have Erik's arms around her, but at the same time, she could not escape how safe she felt. Withdrawing from everyone had been her mistake, she realised. People cared about her and, in her distress, she had not been able to see this, not even the person she cared about the most, the person who now lay in her arms.

"You spoke to me last night, didn't you? While I was asleep," she said after a comfortable silence had passed, her little arms tightening around his neck and torso.

"How did you—"

"I heard you. In my dreams." She began to slowly rub the material of his shirt between her fingers as she spoke. "It sounds silly, I know, but I think... I think your voice may have helped me."

He sighed deeply, folding her deeper into his embrace. "Forgive me," she heard him then murmur into her hair.

"For what?" she asked as he raised his head to look at her. But his gaze quickly dropped immediately to the sheets, rumpled as they were between them.

"I am glad that I was able to help you, but please, forgive me for... for lying in your bed."

Christine would have laughed at the absurdity of his request were it not for the sobering look on his bare face. Wearily, she tilted his chin up with the tips of her fingers and stared at him, bemused and utterly serious. "No. I do not think I will."

" _Oh_ ," he choked out before pain engraved itself into his facial twitches. "I... I shall leave you at once, then."

Without any attempt at graciousness, he pried himself away from her, shame contorting his features as he began to rise. Christine, however, had sensed his withdrawal and quickly followed him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt sleeves before he could indeed leave. None too gently, she then pulled him back down on the bed, where he landed with a surprised thud, before his body was pinned down by hers. His limbs stiffened so fiercely that he began to shake as she came to gently half lay on top of him as one of her legs moved to cover both of his, anchoring him to the bed. His arms, like steadfast tree trunks, lay unmoving at his sides as he looked up at the woman above him.

A sound, a mixture of a sigh and a tut, left her mouth before she leaned down to kiss him, her lips soft and tender and pliable. When she pulled back, she stroked his cheek with her knuckles. "Erik, I will not forgive you because you stayed so that I would not be alone. Why should I forgive you for something like that? Are you sorry that you helped me?"

"No!" he exclaimed, raising his head and body as best he could. "Not at all!"

"Then there is no quarrel between us." Victoriously, she nestled into the crook of his neck, enjoying the way he shuddered as her lips brushed his skin. "Stay," she whispered and when she felt his hand resting against the supple dip of her waist, she knew he would not leave. "Has Nadir returned home?"

"Yes," he managed after swallowing the lump in his throat. His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling as his hand shifted nervously on her, his fingers straying to her hip in a series of accidental spasms. "We are alone."

She nodded. "Good."

"Are you... all right now?" he asked, savouring the way she hummed against him before propping her head up with one hand.

"No," she answered truthfully, with just a hint of a sad smile. "But I will be." Something colourful, a stark contrast to Erik's pallor, suddenly caught her eye and she looked beyond his face to see a beautiful display of flowers resting in a modest vase on her bedside table. "Oh! What beautiful flowers," she chirped, looking at the little buds.

Following her gaze, he then braved her eyes as he proudly announced, "I bought them for you. I thought you would like them. They do not overwhelm you, do they? I can always remove them if you—"

"Shh," she said, quietening him with a subtle touch to his cheek. "I do like them, very much so. Thank you, Erik. That was very thoughtful of you."

"I _should_ buy you flowers," he muttered and Christine did not know who it was he spoke to. "It is what any suitor would do."

"What do you mean?"

"They..." he began, his hand slowly tightening against her waist, pressing her to him more firmly, as though he thought _she_ would be the one to leave. "They are not as nice as roses, are they?"

"Is this about the bouquet Raoul sent me?" she asked steadily, wary of how easily he could snap at just the mention of the name. But not one part of him moved in response and his silence was all the confirmation she needed. "It is," she murmured, bowing her head. "Oh, Erik. You should not worry yourself over some flowers. He was very sweet to send those to me."

He turned his head against the pillow to look at her. "You cannot blame me for thinking—"

"So little of me?" she retorted without missing a beat, her free hand sliding down to rest against his chest. "I _love_ you. Does that mean nothing?"

"Of course it doesn't!" he cried, reaching out timidly towards her face. "It means everything!"

She studied his expression of regret before glancing down at the buttons on his shirt. "You certainly do not act like it does sometimes. But, then again, so do I." A sudden cloud passed over her eyes and she quickly grabbed his hand, bringing his fingers up to her reverent lips. "I think you are the one who will have to forgive me, Erik," she told with an apologetic smile that faded quickly. "I have not treated you well these past weeks."

"You were grieving, and still are," he reminded her.

"That does not excuse my actions. People grieve in different ways." She lowered her gaze and began to trace his captured hand. "I'm... I'm sorry you had to see how I reacted. I feel so weak."

Suddenly, Erik stilled her ministrations, holding onto her fingers tightly as he silently willed her to look up at him. "You are anything but weak."

"But I have been unfair to you," she groaned. "I told myself that I appreciated your company and yet I felt like I wanted to distance myself from everyone. I even thought my fever was a blessing—"

"Christine—"

"I know... I'm sorry. I just want you to know that I do appreciate you."

Almost immediately, he gathered her into his arms, finally holding her without fear. "Your Erik is such a cumbersome, old fool. He doesn't know why you love him." Against him, he heard her chuckle. What sweet music it was to his ears. "No other woman has ever, or will ever, look at me the way you do. I do not care how you have acted. It is a mere shadow of my own behaviour and you should not feel guilty for it." Almost shyly, he pressed his lips to her jaw. "I love you."

The incident with the gendarme would remain a secret between him and Nadir. Christine would find never out, not if he could help it. Every minute he remained there, however, now proved to be a danger to him, and in turn, Christine.

"Christine?" he began, sweeping her hair away from her face as he frowned in thought, "if I asked you to, would you leave Paris with me?"

"Leave Paris? Where has this wanderlust come from?" she asked, unable to keep quiet on the subject. "Is anything wrong? Do you _want_ to leave Paris?"

Before she could even open her mouth to ask anything else, however, she was struck by the inescapable thought of possibility. What if she did leave? Paris had been her home for the better part of a decade; could she truly be asked to leave her _home_? But then again, Uppsala had also been her home. What difference was there between the two cities? It was then that Christine realised that it did not matter where she was, so long as her heart guided her.

"Where would we go?" she asked curiously.

"Anywhere you like. Even Sweden," he sputtered, as if he was able to read her thoughts. "Would you like that, my love? Would you like to return there?"

"Sweden... I should like to see it again," she mused, looking down into his eyes and smiling. "Do you know what I think I miss most about it? At dusk, when I was a child, I would sit on the stairs leading to the back garden and simply stare at the sky. I never had a governess and I was quite a troublesome child, so my skirts would gather dust and dirt whenever I would sit out there. My father would scold me, but I never listened. They were such lovely moments to myself, to sit, staring up at the orange sky. Hearing the birds sing, too. That was what made those moments so special. The birds."

As her reminiscing came to an end, Erik felt a surge of envy flow through his veins, melding together with the more overpowering sensation of adoration for this woman. Smiling, he tapped the little crease at the corner of her mouth that he loved so dearly. "You would like to hear those birds again?"

"Yes," she confirmed quietly, leaning forward to kiss him gently, practically giddy at their unspoken promises. "Perhaps you will hear them too."


	32. Chapter 32

A change had come over Christine, gradually, creeping over her like the fading of a storm. Erik had been quick to notice it, but, just like the aftermath of a storm, constant warmth had yet to shine over her and return her countenance to its original state. No longer, however, did she request a taking of laudanum to help her sleep. If, perchance, her dreams sought to keep her awake until the early hours of the morning, then she would readily face her strife without anything to fog her mind. She would not run from her grief, but neither would she allow it to control her anymore. The single consolation to her mourning was having Erik by her side, ever watchful and caring, though it was often she had to force him from the room whenever his tireless fussing became too much for her.

Mourning was a strange concept to him and though he did not fully understand it, he complied to her wishes and did all that she asked of him. He left her alone when she did not want him to see her weeping, eagerly brought her endless bouquets of flowers and entertained her for hours with his sorcery. While his solitude had not diminished his sleight of hand, Christine's mourning had in fact diminished her true enjoyment of his trickery. He recalled her telling him that she did not wish for him to distract her from her grief, but to draw a single smile from her now was an achievement worth chiding—and smile she did, more often than she would have liked, too.

"I think it is about time I step outside, don't you?" Christine announced one afternoon. "I have stayed too long indoors."

Erik glanced over at her, seeing the sunlight covering her sombre face in a healthy glow—a stark contrast to the dark material that smothered her body. On the one hand, he was perturbed by the suddenness of her decision, but on the other, it would not do either of them any good for him to argue with her. So, with less enthusiasm than intended, he replied, "Whatever you think is best, Christine."

"Perhaps I should run some errands?" she offered, stopping in thought to peer down at the ring on her finger. "Mme Dumas would surely appreciate it, and I am certain that she would enjoy not having to see me at every turn for a little while." Her jest was subtle, yet her tone still held an undercurrent of mirth that sent a surge of hope through Erik's chest. "I could even take a stroll, if I am feeling up to it." Her gaze snapped to his face, a shy want for acceptance flowing through her. "Does that sound reasonable to you?"

A corner of his mouth turned upwards as he reached across from his chair to scoop up one of her hands and bring it to his face. With his other hand, he gently stroked her fingers, trailing from the very tips and down to her wrist. "Very reasonable," he whispered, his breath and the brush of his lips tickling her skin. "Whatever will please you."

Christine sighed, pulling her hand away only to then cup his masked cheek, her little finger tracing the fine edge where flesh met porcelain. "Thank you," she said, leaning over to kiss him, her chaste lips instantly soothing his thudding heart.

He kissed her back, his body seemingly following the pressure of her lips for only when they had parted did he realise he was now sitting on the very edge of his chair. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat and leaned back against the stiff back, completely missing the small smile Christine directed at him.

A few hours passed and a hansom was being hailed to carry her to wherever she wished to go. Upstairs, she stared blankly at herself in the mirror, her attempts at priming her face and hair for public viewing somewhat unsuccessful. Pinching brought only a little colour back to her bleak cheeks, but the darkness surrounding her eyes was harder to hide. She was smoothing out her dress when she saw Erik's bare face appear next to her reflection.

She watched intently as his gaze fell from her hat to her hem and then up again slowly, his fingers skilfully sweeping a few strands of hair away from the back of her neck as he stepped closer. Her breathing hitched unexpectedly when he reached down to entwine his free fingers with hers, his face leaning forward to rest against the back of her shoulder.

A contented hum escaped her lips as she continued to watch his reflection, his mouth moving to skim across her skin before he pressed his lips to the base of her neck. "Is the hansom here?" she asked breathlessly.

A moment of silence passed and then his lips were once again on her. "If I said no, would you believe me?"

Shaking her head, she attempted to break free from his grip. "You are incorrigible," she mumbled under her breath, causing Erik to promptly release her. "I shall be back in time for an early dinner if you wish to stay for one," she called over her shoulder as she grabbed her hamper and scurried out the room, but not before she turned and smiled sweetly at him. "Goodbye, Erik."

Perhaps it was merely the change in scenery—the fact that she was living in a house above ground—that had Christine realising just how easily she and Erik had fallen into domesticity. But whatever the cause, it was a comfortable arrangement she could not deny. Over the past week, Erik had proved himself to be a worthy companion, caring for her and loving her, as any suitor would, as any _good man_ would.

The jolting of the hansom shook her suddenly back to reality as she peered out of the window and readied herself for the upcoming market. Although she had missed the early morning rush, there were still enough people bustling about to warrant Christine's cautious manoeuvring through the crowds and her lack of reluctance when it came to potentially using the hamper to clear a path for herself. The selections on offer were not as fresh as she would have liked and she instantly regretted not leaving the house sooner in the day. However, she was able to purchase a few items here and there, including a large fish that she could perhaps make a hearty dinner out of, before she began her leisurely walk back towards the hansom.

Her outing had never meant to be a long one, merely a simple gathering of supplies and an excuse to breathe the open air again. Nevertheless, she now walked as though with a sense of purpose. Her heart felt lighter and her mind, for a while, did not travel to those darker thoughts that had kept her up at night. Being among people again—among the _living—_ rather than being hauled up under the earth like one who had died, brought her such happiness. While she would always long for the secluded and enclosed rooms that had been her home for the past year, there was not a part of her that had not missed _this_ world.

Yet, within the romantic scenes of Paris she had replayed and imagined in her head, there was one thing she had disregarded, so caught up in her idyllic view as she was: there were some things that people never forgot—and she was one of them.

She had remained ignorant at first, not noticing the occasional glance at her as she handed money over or walked through some of the busier streets of the city, but the merchants of Paris were no strangers to gossip and soon whispers began to follow her. Always soft and never breaking above a murmur, her name began to form on the lips of strangers.

The farther Christine walked, the more she became aware of the unwanted attention she had apparently garnered. She pulled the hamper closer to her body and while she lowered her head in an attempt to make herself less conspicuous, this only served as a confirmation of her identity. She tried to keep her gaze to the ground, but she could not resist glancing up and over her shoulder to see the faces of those who passed judgement on her. The fact that they spoke of her was not the most disheartening aspect, however. It was the way they would avoid her gaze whenever she looked up. The way they would speak of her, but not _to_ her.

The sight of the hansom was enough to quicken her pace, just as she heard her name being called out.

Hearing it above the murmur of the crowd, above the lies and the rumours, only urged her feet forward until she all but threw herself into the safety of the vehicle. It was only then that she realised something. The person who had yelled after her had addressed her by her Christian name. After a slight hesitation, she turned to look out of window and saw someone standing a ways off from her, but it was when her gaze moved upwards to take in his face that her mouth fell open in surprise.

" _Raoul?_ " she whispered before looking around at the street they were on in distress. Why had he approached her in such a careless manner? She was certain now that this meeting would not go unnoticed, but she could not very well leave him standing there on the street, where he was liable to shout again.

Frantically, she ushered him towards her with a flick of her fingers and quickly opened the door in front of her to allow him in. She pulled the heavy hamper into her lap as Raoul sat down next to her, the cramped space making both of them a little uncomfortable.

As soon as he was settled, Christine instructed the driver to divert their journey and to stop a street down from her destination. As they began to move, she sat rigidly against the seat, her head turned towards the window as her gloved fingers tightened around the handle of the hamper. Raoul frowned at this, at her agitation, and suddenly regretted ever calling out her name.

"I fear I made rather a spectacle of myself," he teased, his smile fading at the sight of her troubled stare redirecting to him.

"Oh, Raoul," she said wearily, but despite herself she found herself laughing, too. "Some things have not changed."

At this, he chuckled heartily, filling her ears with its sweet sound and making a part of her ache in remembrance at how much she used to enjoy hearing him laugh. Raoul shook his head in boyish embarrassment. "I suppose not," he agreed, raising his head to gaze at her. "It is good to see you again."

"Likewise," she murmured shyly, politely.

"How are you faring?" he asked her with a sincerity beyond his years. "Ah," he quickly added then, bowing his head. "That was a rather inane question, wasn't it?"

"No, no," she reassured him and, at this, he looked up at her. "It is difficult, as you can imagine. Mamma was always there, and now she is not, and it is strange to accept sometimes, but I try to live my life as before."

"And are you?" he asked, staring deeply into her eyes to ascertain the truth. "Living? Truly living?"

"Not yet," she answered, much to his disappointment, and Raoul began to fiddle with his gloves.

Whenever he had thought of her, he had imagined her warm smile and how radiant she had looked upon that dull stage, her eyes lighting up as she opened her mouth to sing. When he had thought of her, she was _happy_ , but now as he looked at her, she was not. How miserable her life had become, and how desperately he wished to bring some happiness back into it.

"I never did thank you for the flowers," she eventually said, breaking their awkward reverie. "They were beautiful."

His chest tightened at hearing this, and he did not hesitate to ask, "Did they make you smile?"

"Yes, they did," she answered softly, his heart stopping at the affirmation, but it was when his features quickly grew sombre that she frowned. "What is it?" she asked, not liking the way his solemnity had aged him.

"I... I am still finding it difficult to picture you alone in that house," he told her. "I can't imagine how you must spend your days without companionship."

With a sight shake of her head, she answered, "I am not alone."

Raoul's gaze was immediately drawn to the way she then began to rub her gloved hand. No doubt she was drawn to the ring that presumably still lay upon her finger, and he remembered how she had repeated the same action the last time he had seen her. With a grimace, he looked up and asked, "How do you mean?"

"I have Madame Giry, and Meg... and you."

"But," he added slowly, not wishing to offend her in any way, "I suppose a ballet mistress and a girl busy with her betrothed do not make the best company at times. And I have scarcely seen you since..." Here, he lowered his head and bit his tongue before he could say something that would cause her distress.

"No," she murmured distantly, separating her hands to wrap them around the hamper handle again. "I suppose you are right."

"Would you, then... Do forgive me prematurely for being so forward, but I need to ask... Would you consider dining with me this week? Perhaps you could even accompany me to a performance. If you wish, that is."

She looked to him, quite startled, her mouth open in surprise as she tried to form some semblance of an answer. Her heart thudded in her ears and she suddenly felt a strange heat on her cheeks. "I couldn't possibly..."

Biting her lip, Christine looked down to her lap and began to rub her fingers together—a nervous tick she had acquired, it would seem. She could not bring herself to acquiesce to his request, but nor could she bring herself to firmly decline, and this was the fact that terrified her. The rattle of the hansom seemed to only amplify her quickening pulse as she tried to clear her head so that she could make sense of her reluctance. "Raoul," she began softly, her tone enough to make the crease on his forehead disappear. "People would talk, and I will only drag your good name down if I were to—"

"Don't even say it, Christine," he told her sternly before glancing out the windows, following the movements of the people around them. "Let them talk. Let them see me with you." He turned back to her, a smile playing on his lips, and the look in his eyes very nearly stole her breath away. "I did not know you to be so deterred by false gossip."

And suddenly she understood. Her hand crept towards her chest, her fingers splaying across her heart for she knew now it was still beating for him.

A piece of her was still in _love_ with him. It was a foolish thought to try to conceal, or even suppress, because no matter how hard she tried to deny it, Raoul would always be her first love. He was the epitome of a carefree youth and reminded her dearly of the way she had been before all this heartache had found her. Looking at him was the only time she was able to think back on the past and not feel saddened.

"Christine? Whatever's the matter?" He frowned, tilting his head to the side.

Blinking out of her daydream, she lowered her hand to her lap. "Raoul, the girl you knew is not here anymore, I fear."

"Nonsense." Shaking his head, he conjectured, "She is still here."

"No, Raoul. It is true that I once would not have allowed lies to bother me, but now I am not so certain. I've been away from the public eye for so long now; I suppose I had forgotten what it was like." She sighed. "Before you called to me, I wanted nothing more than to leave this street, to leave this _city_ , even. People can be so cruel in their judgements, as lewd and as misinformed as they may be, but that will never stop them from announcing them." She looked at him, apologetic guilt shining in her eyes, as she fought against the urge to hold his hand. "I cannot subject you to the gossip that still follows in my wake."

"They are all fools," he muttered loudly, daring any bystander who had heard him to challenge his utterance. "They have no right to—"

"Don't they?" she asked, her lips curling up in appreciation at his gallant display. "Still, they can be so unkind sometimes."

"Then I have surely stirred more gossip amongst the masses by calling your name. I am sorry."

"You weren't to know," she reassured him, finally succumbing to the urge to touch his hand. "Do not linger on it."

Startled, Raoul stared down at her fingers that lightly touched his and felt his palms begin to sweat. "If you are certain," he fumbled, dragging his eyes up to her face.

"Quite," she said, her posture slumping slightly as she cleared her throat. "However, I think I will refuse your invitations, Raoul. I'm sorry."

With a nod, he lowered his head, his smile accepting of defeat, disappointing though it was. "I understand. But how will you occupy your time?" he asked, attempting to lighten the atmosphere. "Do you have work? Do you intend to perform? Will La Daaé rise again?"

A musical laugh erupted from Christine at his teasing and she raised her hand to her mouth, determined to maintain her poise. "Oh, you make me sound like a phoenix rising from the ashes!"

"But that is how I see you!" he exclaimed happily, and Christine's hand pressed more firmly against her face as she felt her cheeks warm at his words.

"Ah, well, I..." she faltered. "In truth, I have not thought on it. Perhaps I will sing again. I dearly want to, but, unfortunately, I am afraid that Paris would not come to see me anymore purely on the lure of my voice."

"Then I shall denounce every single person who speaks ill of you," he proclaimed, falling effortlessly into his role as her saviour again.

How easily and quickly the atmosphere around them had thinned, and soon Christine was feeling quite light headed from their spontaneously playful attitudes. She had forgotten how pleasant his company had been, how much of a comfort it had been to her.

The sudden jerking of the hansom, indicating it had stopped, had unfortunately placed her in the unkind position of an imminent farewell. They looked to one another without saying a word and a sense of sentimentality passed between them. But Christine knew that she could not continue like this. Under the scrutiny of society, stolen moments were all they could have now, and she would not do that to him.

Raoul seemed to understand this, too, for he solemnly nodded towards her before opening the small door in front of them.

"No," she said, swiftly catching his arm before he could properly rise from his seat. He looked back at her questionably. "I will go," she explained, not wanting him to be spotted, for his sake. "I have only a short walk from here."

Shifting the hamper to her right arm, Christine stood, exited the hansom and stepped down onto the pavement below. Even to her, it was quite a distance, and she found herself craning her neck up to find Raoul's face, partially hidden behind the framing. Graciously, he shuffled forward, closing the door and staying near it as he gazed down at her.

She gazed back, memorising his features as though this was the last time she would see them. "Goodbye, Raoul."

"Good day, Christine," he said fondly before leaning forward even more. Swept up in his eyes, her feet began to move closer to the wheels, her head tilting up to witness the three words he then murmured so tenderly from his mouth. "I love you."

A sob formed in her throat. "I know you do." She looked at him for longer than was suitable before she began a slow retreat up the street.

o0o

Erik was bewildered to hear the front door slamming merely an hour after Christine had left, and was even more so when he heard her hurried footsteps nearing her bedchamber. She burst in, her cheeks flushed, and did not even glance at him as she strode past and fell onto her vanity stool. There, she proceeded to carelessly remove her hat and the pins from her hair before shaking her curls out. They tumbled down her back wildly and Erik watched as she grabbed her hairbrush and began to move it over her hair slowly. The motion was almost as hypnotic as it was monotonous, and Erik was drawn to it. He frowned when she finally put the brush down, however, to stare at the wall with a blank expression.

"Perhaps it _is_ best if we leave soon," she said quietly, shifting to stare at her reflection.

"Christine?" he said, coming towards her carefully until he was standing directly behind her. His hands came down to rest on her shoulders and the gesture caused a tiny smile to flicker at her lips. "What is it? What do you mean?"

"Nothing of concern, only that Paris is not as forgetful as I had hoped."

Of all the things Erik wished he could understand, her pain was not one of them—if her fate rested in his hands alone, he would see to it that she lived every day of her life without pain. And yet, as he stood there, he could not stop himself from nodding in shameful empathy.

"I have become a social outcast of sorts," she announced, a nervous laugh following her words as he felt her body slump against him. Her fingers moved to her scent bottle where they began to fiddle with the glass topper, lifting it up and heedlessly dropping it back down. "I do not think I will be welcomed back into society and it is certain no theatre would take me now, not in Paris anyway. My name is forever tainted here."

Erik winced as he thought of his recklessness, of the course his own selfish actions had taken over the past year that had led to this moment. Because of him, Christine's social and career aspects had all but diminished. He was not unaware of the things being said about her either, horrible and filthy words that cut across his heart whenever he thought of them. But now the inescapable truth of it all was that she was right—and he was the only one to blame for this tragedy.

"I confess," he began, with an odd tremor to his voice, "that I had not the foresight to understand the full impact of my actions. I fear I have forever ruined your chances to sing or, dare I even say it, your _want_ to sing. Forgive me, my dear, forgive me. Upon agreeing to stay by my side, your life has ceased to be your own and my egotistical needs have made certain that it remained that way."

As he looked to her for a reply, he succumbed to the notion of accepting whatever punishment she lay on him. For if she were to stand and strike him down with the cruel lashings of a whip, he would do nothing but fall to his knees and take the beating he rightly deserved. But as he continued to wait, his agitation building by the second, she did not stand, nor sit up, nor even raise her head.

Her silence was proving to be more torturous than any method he had ever experienced until she whispered, "Perhaps you are right," and his hands slipped from her shoulders.

Her head finally lifted and she found his eyes in the mirror, her mouth opening and closing before she looked away again with a roll of her shoulders. Erik did not know what was stronger: wanting to hear an accusation from her or _needing_ to hear her say one.

"Oh, Christine," he sighed woefully. "There is nothing I can say to make amends for the wrong I have caused you."

"Erik, listen to me," she spoke softly, pulling him out of his self-deprecation. "The only thing we can do now is forgive one another for the troubles we have inflicted and move on with our lives. _Together._ I cannot put you at fault for what has come to pass, Erik. No one can truly be blamed for the course our lives have taken. If we pointed the finger at every turn, we would be stuck in an endless cycle, never to proceed. Living underground has sheltered both of us from harm, but we have lived there too long, Erik. We must face the world by each other's side now."

Erik took a step back and wound his fingers together in an attempt to stop them from trembling. "Even if all I do is drag you along with me, subjecting you to more restrictions?"

"You do not _drag_ me," she insisted, resting her head in her hands. "When will you understand that I love you and every decision I make is done out of my own free will?"

"And when will you understand that a life with me is hardly a life at all!" he snarled, his anger quickly fading to irritation when he saw her shoulders begin to shake.

Her hands did not move from her face after that and her cupped palms became chalices, gathering and keeping her silent tears. She did not speak, and neither did Erik for a long time, each soul languishing in the aftermath of their bitter exchange.

"Christine..." he then whispered, so quietly that she was not certain that he had even spoken in the first place. His hands raised as though searching for words in the air before they dropped back to his sides.

Lowering her hands to reveal her contorted and unpleasantly red face, Christine looked to him in despair. "You would leave me?" she asked with not a hint of weakness in her tone. But before he had a chance to reply, she surprised him by rising to her feet and facing him. "Am I nothing to you? Are my sacrifices to be in vain because of the pride you have found too late? I gave up a life on the Paris stage for _you_ , and now what would you have me do?" She stopped short to glance down at her hand before raising it in front of his face, the ring glinting right before his eyes. "What is this, Erik? What does it mean for you now?" Drooping her shoulders, she stared at him unrelentingly, her jaw clenching as frustration fuelled her words. "Perhaps you think I am better off alone, or even in the arms of another man. Raoul would surely take me back, if that is what you want; why, he proposed to me again shortly before Mamma died!"

" _What_?" he breathed in one coarse exhale, his blood boiling at the mention of the boy, and yet, an overwhelming sense of fatigue came over him at this thought. How long had the Vicomte been a looming presence in his life? He was young, stubbornly determined, but _parasitical_ , and he was slowly eating away at Erik. Every mention of the boy's name sought to wound him further.

When he dared to meet Christine's eyes, there was no remorse and no cowardice in her little body. Only that same stubborn determination he had witnessed in the Vicomte.

"Oh, yes," she replied gently, her voice never raising above a calm murmur, but to Erik, it felt as though she was shouting into his ear. "I declined, of course, out of loyalty and out of love for you, but I am certain he would ask again if you wish it."

"Why do you tell me this?" he rasped in a voice low and menacing. "Are you not afraid of the consequences? I could kill him for being so impertinent."

"Then you would merely be adding to the apparent unhappiness you have caused me," she said unflinchingly as she stepped forward and, in a tone that shook him to his core. "You would not _dare_ touch a hair on his head."

With a start, he bitterly realised that she was right. His selfishness had ultimately ended up protecting the boy. Exasperated, he ran a hand through his hair and gestured towards the ring. "I do not know what you want!"

If Erik had wanted to say more, he would not have had the chance, for a pair of warm lips swiftly descended upon his. Christine's body had collided into him so quickly that he found himself staggering backwards to keep from falling. Undeterred, she moved with him, winding her arms fiercely around his neck as she continued to kiss his motionless lips.

When she pulled back, she noted the startled expression on his face and her stance immediately softened. "If that is true," she whispered, "if you truly do not know what I want, then please trust my judgement. I know what is best for me."

Again, she pressed her lips to his, coaxing him to kiss her back, and when he did, she felt as though she could weep. His hands flew to her face, cupping her cheeks, his fingers straying to trace her jaw, her neck and to comb through her hair.

"This is not the life I had envisioned for you," he lamented as he broke their kiss.

"But at the end of the day, Erik, it _is_ _my_ _life_ ," she told him, resting her head on his heaving chest and closing her eyes, "and though this was not the path I had envisioned either, I do not regret following it."

"I have nothing to offer you," he said with a shake of his head, taking a step back from her as if to run but her arms remained steadfast. "Not even a name."

"No," she agreed, "but I do."

At this, Erik froze and stared at her with eyes filled with such longing, such hope, that Christine felt not one hint of regret at her utterance. This had been the path they had carefully tread, this had been their destiny, and it was only now that she realised what she must do. Too long had she run from those who only sought to love her, and she could not think of a more perfect place to stand for the rest of her days than in Erik's arms.

Looking up at him courageously and with such determination, she could scarcely believe the words that next flew effortlessly from her mouth. "Take my name, Erik, and become my husband. Take my name to give it back to me."

It was as if all the air had been knocked from his lungs for Erik suddenly gasped and doubled over, violently clutching at Christine's upper arms for support. His head came to rest against her collar as he tried to process what had just happened.

"You would... become my... my... and I thought you did not want..."

Cradling his limp body, Christine gently pushed him upright before laying her palms firmly on his shoulders. Their eyes met. "I would never want to marry anyone because of an obligation. Many a successful marriage has been formed because of one, but that is not for me. I would marry because I am in love and because _I_ _wish_ to be wed."

"Oh, Christine," he cried, lowering his head shamefully so that she could be spared his tears. "I cannot take something as sacred as your name."

"I want you to; please understand, Erik, I give it freely."

Raising his head slowly, he smiled in disbelief. "Then I would be honoured to become your husband, Mademoiselle Daaé."


	33. Chapter 33

**A/N: Thank you to those still reading and who have stuck with this story—Your support is really appreciated!**

* * *

The road to a healthy recovery would be a long and arduous one, Christine knew this, as did Erik, but what lay at the end for them was a mystery they would find out together—this was an absolute certainty. Never again would they be made to face the cruel world alone, yet Erik could scarcely believe it. His dream of having a wife and a home, was so vivid, so in reach, that he found himself gazing at his betrothed when she was busying herself with even the most mundane of tasks, sometimes expecting her to simply vanish into thin air. Memories flickered at the back of his mind—even as her hand would brush against his in passing—of drug induced hallucinations, of faces and figures that were not truly there, but were still haunting reminders of his melancholy life. He had not touched the horrid stuff in years, however, and a relapse was the least of his worries at present.

Christine remained blissfully ignorant of the knowledge infesting the corners of Erik's mind. Like a tamed beast, he lay in wait, his muscles flexing and his fingers coiling around his lasso in preparation to pounce. And yet such an attack did not come from him. It _would_ not come from him. As much as he did not wish to admit it, the Daroga had been right. Erik was not foolish enough to endanger his life, or Christine's, and certainly not at this precious time in their engagement.

 _Engagement._ At one time, Erik had despised the word and its involvement in bringing Christine and the Vicomte together in secrecy. But now? Now, it held the most wondrous of possibilities and promises and Erik's heart could not help but turn to the word, even in the wake of their looming threat. For a while, however, he was able to forget this and focus on filling Christine's days with whatever she wanted or needed.

One night, after Mme Dumas had left and Christine had announced she would adjourn to the parlour, Erik left her to her own devices and only once did he check on her. The hour was late and he grew concerned that the day's events had tired her out, but as he neared the parlour door, he began to soften his footfalls, his head tilting to the side as he heard her voice from within.

She was not calling to him, nor to anyone it seemed, for her words were of a whispered and murmured nature. Yet, with his interest piqued, Erik stealthily stood at the threshold and carefully looked into the room. The sight nearly made him weep.

With head bowed and hands clasped together, Christine knelt by the hearth; the words, which she ushered from her mouth softly, were as natural as the air she breathed. A beaded necklace dangled from between her palms. Erik sucked in a shaky breath before disappearing into the dark corridor, his head leaning against the wall as he found himself smiling. Smiling! And at the prospect of such a ridiculous thing as religion! But for all the trouble he had caused her, for all his unnecessary grief and the ridicule he had cast down upon her, he was glad this one good thing had come of it all.

She felt guilty—she had told him one evening, however—that she should smile when draped in sombre clothing. This did not deter Erik and his endeavours to make her as happy as she would allow herself to be never ceased. Not even when she announced that she would venture outside again to a luncheon with Meg at the Café de la Paix. Despite his grievances, Christine reassured him that she would not allow herself to be belittled by the masses this time. A meeting with Meg was dearly needed.

Christine raised a gloved hand to her hair to ascertain everything was in its rightful place as the hansom moved her along at a leisurely pace. It was peaceful to travel by herself again and knowing that Erik would be there when she returned sent her heart aflutter. She leaned her head forward to catch the fair breeze blowing past and to happily watch the men and women going about their separate ways. Laughter reached her ears and smiles reached her eyes; adolescents, betrothed couples, misbehaving children, young babes—Paris was full of life. No matter how dark the sky appeared to be, there was always beauty to be found.

Peering in front of her as she was taken down the Rue de la Paix, she was suddenly struck by the terrifying grandeur of the Opéra de Paris. Next to the building, Christine was small and insignificant, but oh, how she had been swept up in its beauty! And how quickly she learned just how deceiving appearances can be.

Thanking the driver as the hansom rolled to a stop, she stepped out and unconsciously pulled her jacket closer to her neck as she all but ran to the Café. It would have been lovely to have sat and talked outside, to have seen the buds begin to grow on the trees that lined the pavement, but alas, the wind forbade such a setting. Stepping into the warm and sombre building, Christine glanced around for her friend and saw the dancer looking quite perturbed in one far corner of the room.

Taking her gloves off, Christine sauntered across to her and sat down, briefly glancing at the tea and small pastry Meg was nursing.

"You are late," she said, raising the brim of the cup to her lips before staring at Christine with mock indifference. "Was I expected to wait here all day? The very nerve!"

Sighing, Christine called a waiter to attention and ordered her own drink before smoothing her gloves out on the table. "I see it was foolish to think becoming a Baroness would go to your head," she quipped, her mouth curling up in one corner.

"I am glad you have seen the error of your ways," Meg said with the utmost dignity before chortling behind her hand. "Oh, dear," she whined before giggling again. "I thought I was capable of keeping up the charade for longer."

"You were never a very good actress, Meg," she teased. "It is sheer luck that your profession lays elsewhere."

Delighting in their familiar exchange, Meg embraced her with one arm before leaning back in her chair. Christine thanked the waiter as he returned with her own cup of tea and cautiously sipped at it, her gaze flitting about the Café. An artist of some kind sat alone at one table, his sketch pad resting on his crossed knee as he raised his head every so often at some unseen muse. A group of women beyond him alternated between drinking from their glasses, eating from their plates and cackling at something the other had whispered to them.

"It is not the type of establishment I would have expected a Baroness dine at," Christine joked. Although, it was partially empty on this afternoon, the loud voices on the other side of the room still managed to fool her into thinking it was crowded.

"I'll be damned before anyone says I cannot! I am not a Baroness yet," was Meg's reply, making her friend look around shyly to see if anyone had heard her outcry. "Do not look so shocked, Christine. People will think you have committed a crime."

Letting out a nervous laugh, Christine fiddled with her cup and asked, "So what has kept you busy so much that you have not seen fit to see me?"

Tracing the indents in the wooden table, Meg kept her gaze firmly on her finger. "I'm sorry. I should have come to see you when... it happened. I should have come after the funeral. I... I somehow thought you would want some time to yourself."

Christine moved her hand to Meg's arm, stilling her troubled fidgeting and drawing her eyes up to her face. "You did the right thing, I believe; I was not myself after the funeral. But tell me, how have you fared?"

Nodding graciously, Meg covered Christine's hand and squeezed her fingers, amazed at how quick she had been to understand. It was just in her nature, Meg supposed. "I did not fully comprehend how agonising it would be to wait for a wedding," she began. "I have tried to reason with my soon-to-be mother in law, but oh, that woman is frightful! Every time she looks at me, I feel a chill. I do not tell a lie. She belongs in a penny dreadful, not an estate!"

Pressing her palm to her mouth, Christine attempted—unsuccessfully—to stifle her laughter, and eventually began to chuckle as loudly as the women on the other side of the room. Embarrassment flooded her cheeks as she then spotted the artist peering curiously over at her and she wished that she had a fan to shield her face.

"I cannot fathom how a great singer can shrink at drawing attention to herself sometimes," Meg observed, noticing the exchange between her friend and the man, who was once again absorbed in his work. "You have a gift, Christine. Even your laugh is melodic! You should not shy away from such a thing."

Waving her hand in a lazy dismissal, Christine brought her cup again to her mouth. "That is quite enough talk about me. I believe we were discussing your monster of a mother in law?"

Meg grinned and gave a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders. "It's very droll, isn't it? Almost preordained. She dislikes me, of course. I have tried to gain her favour, but I am afraid she will never warm to the idea of a dancer marrying her only son."

"Will you continue to dance?" The question had been troubling her for some time now.

"I am not entirely sure," she replied as she pursed her lips in thought. "I would hate to give it up completely, and though the idea of becoming a mother myself is lovely, I do not believe I will ever be fully integrated in that society."

"It has happened before," Christine reminded her, earning her a frown.

"So Maman tells me."

Twirling the cup around and around in her hands, causing the dwindling contents to slosh gently, Meg sighed and turned her attention to her half eaten pastry. Christine watched her friend's fiddling before the soft downpour of rain caught her attention and she looked over at the windows. Paris, more of a painting than a city, was changing yet again as its colours bled and the figures who had not the foresight to bring an umbrella with them jumped and raced to shelter.

"Will you ever return to it? The Opéra, I mean." Tilting her head as she tried to spy the great building through the chaos of the busy streets, Meg missed how her friend's expression darkened considerably.

"It does not matter how much I would like to return, I know I will not be taken back."

"Perhaps outside of Paris?" offered Meg, smiling in the hopes to brighten her mood.

"Perhaps."

"Say, why not take a little impromptu visit to the Opéra?" With a grin, Meg took rather a large bite and looked to her companion expectantly. "It is not a minute away and you can even show me what it is like five cellars below. I have never been brave enough to see for myself."

"No, Meg," Christine said, shaking her head. "Erik will not let me go below these days, for reasons I do not know. I presume it's because I could stumble upon a trap or become lost in the darkness."

Meg frowned at this but concluded that her explanation was reasonable. "Is it truly so dangerous?"

"Yes," here, a smile began to play at her lips, "but I am about to embark on a much more dangerous journey, and a much more thrilling one." When Meg did nothing but gesture for her to continue, Christine's fingers sought out the ring on her hand. "Meg, I am to be married."

Although Christine had not been expecting a fanfare of congratulations, the blank look on Meg's face was enough to make her forgo her moment of happiness and wonder why she had felt the need to bring the subject up in the first place. Almost immediately, however, she raised her chin high and dispelled any such timidity and shame she had been made to feel over her engagement.

"No doubt you are shocked, Meg, but I will not be made to feel guilty about what has come to pass between Erik and myself."

"But the Vicomte," Meg argued weakly, her eyes drifting to the nearest occupied table to ascertain whether their conversation would be overheard. Bringing her attention back to her friend, Meg surveyed her face with afflicting curiosity. "Maman says you have reconciled."

Sighing, Christine leaned back and looked down at her slightly damp jacket. "Your mother is right up to a point, but she is very much mistaken if she thought anything beyond the rekindling of friendship occurred. We have not been engaged for many months, almost an entire year." Here, she paused and peered across at Meg. "Do not look so glum. Can you not be happy for me?"

"I do not know," she admitted, tapping her fingernail atop the table. "I know I wished you well on your birthday and that you would be able to figure everything out, but I never expected... _this._ "

"Please, Meg," Christine whispered, "your support is something I would dearly love to have. I feel as though I am being pulled apart, tempted to tear myself in two so that everyone in my life may feel satisfied. I should not feel this way, I know, but is it wrong to want just one friend who will side with me on this decision?" She reached for her hand. "I want Raoul in my life, I cannot deny that, but I will not bow to what is expected of me and accept him again."

As Christine finished, Meg simultaneously squeezed her friend's fingers and opened her mouth to gape for a few moments. Upon correcting herself, she once again glanced out conspiratorially at the other customers and in a voice low and hushed asked, "Again? You mean to say he has asked you to marry him... again?"

"Yes," she confirmed, picking up her gloves and twisting them vigorously in her hands. "He still loves me," she confessed with a nervous laugh that faded almost instantly. "You mustn't tell that to anyone, though, Meg. Promise me."

Nodding slightly, she agreed, but could not shake the lingering concern at the back of her mind. How could anyone give up a life with a Vicomte for a murderer? Christine was many things, and Meg had always thought her sensible in her choices, but giving her hand in marriage to the Opera Ghost was perhaps the most reckless thing she had ever done. The smile Meg gave her now succeeded in calming her, but that forced happiness did not reach her eyes. Putting on a front was maybe the best thing for Meg to do and she did not want to lie to her friend, nor cause an argument.

"If you will not take me down below then what say you to filling our bellies and then a stroll across the boulevard?"

Christine nodded her thanks at Meg's efforts but chuckled at her impetuousness. "I think we should at least wait for this rain to pass, don't you?"

o0o

Leaning back against her finely covered chaise longue, with one long arm draped over the edge, La Sorelli hummed her delight as her lover buried his face into her neck. His lips teased her skin, lazily kissing and nipping and stopping every so often to breathe in the fragrance he had purchased for her. It was delectable and irresistible—just like the woman who wore it.

One stocking clad leg stretched above the entwined bodies and Sorelli smiled, pointing her toes before lowering it to wrap around Philippe de Chagny's lower back. Slowly, her calf rubbed against his clothed hip and drew a moan from him, as enticingly masculine as it was vulnerable.

It had only taken a matter of months for the couple to learn what drove the other to that tantalising oblivion, and it was a mixture of vain pride and domineering curiosity that had caused Sorelli to cross the boundaries of their relationship and make it so that he was loathe to leave her arms. She was not a fool, she knew how her lithe body had captured his attention and how she had henceforth used it to keep him.

She had never, however, expected to care for him as fiercely as she did now.

"Philippe?" she murmured in her husky droll as he sighed against her and ceased his ministrations. Staring up at the ceiling, she combed her fingers through his thick hair as his hand toyed with the sleeve of her chemise. Today, a moment was all they were allowed to share with one another and though she wanted nothing more than for him to slide that material down her arm, she was content to just lay in his embrace.

Settling his weight onto the chaise longue, Philippe propped himself up on his elbow and caught her hand, his fingers flirting with hers as he paused in thought. "Do you find me heartless?" he asked at last, earning him not ridicule but a pull of her alluring lips.

"I find you distracted, not heartless," she answered in a jest, lightly grasping his chin.

Tilting his head away from her touch, he looked down at her with a grave expression. "You know I care for you, don't you?"

It felt almost like a plea to be heard, to be understood, and Sorelli nodded her head, her heart hammering in the wake of his affection. "And I you." Dragging her fingers along his cheek, she pulled him into a deep kiss, satisfied when he held the back of her neck fervently. But no sooner had he melted in her arms than his lips left hers. Huffing in annoyance, Sorelli attempted to sit up, laying her head back against the slope and her right arm on the sculpted edge. "Philippe, I wish you would tell me what is going on inside that head of yours."

"Something that Raoul said to me has haunted my mind ever since. I haven't been able to forget it." He stared at the pattern on her dressing room drapes as wrinkles appeared between his eyebrows. "He said that I didn't understand love."

Sorelli fought against the urge to roll her eyes at him. "Is that what you were worrying about? Pish, Philippe!" she exclaimed, to which he let out a hearty chuckle. "Do not laugh, I speak seriously!"

Through his sudden joy, he continued to do exactly that, even as he kissed her nose. "How did I ever deserve you?"

"I am sure you prayed very hard every night." Taking his head in her hands, she then eyed him with a steely look. "Do not take to heart what your brother has said. He speaks false accusations through his sadness. Trust me, Philippe." While not taking her eyes off of his face, she reached for his hand, kissed his fingers and pressed his palm over her heart. "This cannot be false," she whispered, moving her own hand towards him so that it mirrored his. "Nor this."

Surging forward, Philippe claimed her lips as tenderly and with as much ardour as he had the first time he had kissed her. His palm slid up her neck to her warm cheek as he deepened the kiss, skilfully manoeuvring the woman so he could feel the weight of her slender body on top of him.

"I have to return soon," she rasped between kisses, "my rehearsal..."

"It cannot be helped if you were detained," he grinned, swallowing her moan just as his hands traced her hips and trailed downward to her thighs.

"Philippe, no," she asserted, sitting up but refusing to untangle herself from him. With a quirk of her eyebrow, she glided her hands down his chest at a cruel pace before travelling lower to his hips. She looked up at him to see his lust hazed eyes and she took guilty pleasure in the way his mouth parted under her stare.

Sighing, she lifted her hands from him and Philippe was startled to see his pocket watch now swinging from between her fingers. He chuckled, lifting one hand to his face as Sorelli calmly peered down at the little clock and tutted. "And I thought you so strict on punctuality, my dear Comte."

"Very well," he said, smirking, "if you want rid of me that badly, I shall leave you... but not before I kiss you again." Before Sorelli could bound but a few steps away from his clutches, Philippe had caught her in his arms in a fit of giggles. He held her close as she raised herself up onto her toes so that she could wrap her arms around him in turn.

She looked at him in adoration and kissed him sweetly, his hands tightening on her briefly before sadly allowing her to slip away from him. Smiling, Sorelli trod across the floor and swept her white shawl up and over her shoulders.

"Speak with him," she urged wisely, walking him to the door with a guiding hand. "I do not pretend to know the minds of men but I know many a difference can be solved through gentle discussion."

Sighing, the Comte nodded, knowing only too well he would not escape the woman's wondrous wrath if he did not do as she suggested. There was little to be lost from a simple conversation, after all. Replacing his hat atop his head, he picked up his walking stick that had been perched beside the door and began to twirl it in his fingers.

"Shall I see you this evening?" he asked, raising his head to see her perched on her dressing table, her eyes critically appraising her appearance.

Sorelli smirked, unknowingly causing Philippe to want to cast off his hat and jacket and return to her arms. "That depends." She peered over her shoulder at him. "If all goes well with the Vicomte."

Grasping the ornate knob of the stick, Philippe nodded and leaned against the wall. "I shall send for you after your performance."

A little grunt reached his ears and he saw that Sorelli had placed her hands on her hips. Her eyes, dark and piercing, found his reflection. "You are too presumptuous, Monsieur," she said haughtily, though Philippe could easily see through her façade. "Your brother might not be so eager to speak to you and I might tire myself out on the stage tonight."

"I have never known you to tire before," he murmured, watching in satisfaction as her arms dropped to her sides and a rare blush crept up her neck. "Adieu, then, my sweet," he continued, smiling fondly. "I wish you luck for your performance."

Before he had the chance to open the door, Sorelli flew to his side, pressing her lips swiftly to his in a chaste kiss. "You are a good man, Philippe." Her fingertip trailed along his cheek before returning to her shawl. "Remember that."

The street outside was dark and damp and Philippe shrugged his jacket as he peered up incredulously at the sky. Through thunderous clouds of grey shone a few rays of sunshine and he strode forward to his carriage with a spring in his step that had not been present before his visit to the Opéra. He weaved his way through the crowd of visibly rattled men and women, who nearly all wore a displeased expression on their faces for the surprising turn the weather had taken. Closed, but still wet umbrellas swayed in gloved hands and Philippe thought himself lucky to not have been caught in that.

Entering his carriage, he quickly rapped on the top to signal his driver to begin the journey. Resting his hands on the silver knob of his walking stick, he smiled as the last remnants of fog began to clear from his mind, the memory of Sorelli's voice and mouth still potent even as they faded and gave way to more pressing matters—Raoul. Philippe's mouth twisted in thought. Sorelli often had an overwhelming way of creeping under his skin and making him listen to the simplest of whispers. It was something he both resented and admired in her, this surge of attractive power. But, the fact of the matter was that she was right. A conversation needed to take place between him and his brother.

His journey back to the estate took him down the Boulevard des Italiens, where he leaned his head against the chilled window and observed the throng of the elite. More sunlight began to break through the heavy clouds above and soon it poured its warmth onto the ground below, causing more than a few heads to turn up in pleasant surprise. One such head belonged to a young woman, whose passing face did not register in Philippe's mind until moments after the carriage had rolled on by... It was Christine.

Rubbing the back of his neck distractedly, he truly believed himself a hypocrite. It was out of love and a want for his happiness that Philippe had tried to sway Raoul's attentions away from the singer, but alas, the poor boy was stricken. But he was also a flighty lad, and Philippe had thought that the right woman would be able to capture him, to make him set both feet on the ground.

Philippe was not unsympathetic, however, for he understood his brother's plight better than he allowed himself to know. He, too, kept company with a performer, after all. Shaking his head, he shortly came to a decision that would hopefully appease Raoul. He could only pray that he would listen.

Swiftly depositing his outdoor wear to his valet as he entered the doors of the de Chagny estate, Philippe strode with purpose into the parlour only to find the very person he needed to see. Stopping very briefly to stare at his brother lounging in his armchair, Philippe walked over to the decanter resting on the cabinet on the far side of the room, his hand reaching towards the glass before thinking better of it. He turned on the spot, leaning against the wood as he folded his arms and waited impatiently for Raoul to speak. But he did not.

"Come, brother," Philippe began, pushing himself away from the cabinet to stand in front of the armchair, "there is a reason for your presence here. You were awaiting my return and here I am, so let me hear what it is you most assuredly have waited to say."

Raoul peered up at him with a look of displeasure before he haughtily turned his head away. "You _have_ returned, haven't you?"

Exasperated already, Philippe answered in a rather stern tone, "Yes, I have. I am clearly standing before you. Now would you be so kind as to tell me what is on your mind?"

"You were at the Opéra, weren't you? You went to see your dancer." Raoul did not need to look at his brother to know how his shoulders then slumped in acceptance of his guilt. The silence he was met with only reaffirmed his suspicions. "How can you sit there and pass judgement on my feelings for Christine when you are in the middle of a romance with one of her own? I do not understand how you think you can get away with believing that I have lowered myself somehow when you should say the same for yourself!"

Clenching his jaw, but sinking down into his own armchair with slow grace, Philippe threaded his fingers together and stared levelly at Raoul. "Are you quite done?"

At his dismissive reply, Raoul glared at him. "Do you not have anything to say for yourself?"

Releasing a steady breath, Philippe asked, "Where is this leading?"

Almost instantly did his eyes dart to the floor, his boyish flare more apparent in this moment than it had been for weeks. "A fortnight ago, I saw Christine, and I know what you will say, but Philippe, hear me. You cannot ask me to give her up. I cannot abandon her at this time in her life."

Despite his grievances and worry for him, Philippe found himself smiling at the wilful youth. "She refused your proposal, did she not?" he asked, wary of his reaction, but when all he saw was surrender on his brother's face, he frowned.

"She did, but I care not. If her heart has changed then so be it, I will be happy for her whatever she chooses." Here, he gave a slight grimace that went unnoticed by Philippe. Although it was the truth he spoke, he could not shake his mind clear of the fact that she had fallen in love with the Opera Ghost. The man had stolen her heart away to his grave, and what was Christine to do now? "You may continue to cast endless strings of women at me, Philippe, but nothing that you do or say will ever change the way I feel about her. If a friend is all I can be to her, then I am content if it will serve for her happiness."

A surge of admiration filled Philippe's heart at the tender way his brother spoke. Such a young man, he was, and yet he held the courage and wisdom of one twice his age. A want to right the wrong he had committed in Raoul's eyes strove Philippe to rise, repositioning himself in front of the hearth, his eyes flickering between the portrait of their dearly departed mother and father above him and his brother. Peering into the dark, hard stare of the late Comte, Philippe recalled how determined he had been to show himself as a worthy heir and son in his eyes. Now, he found himself harbouring that same determination, to prove to Raoul and to Sorelli that he was indeed a good man.

"I will withdraw the warrant, Raoul, if that is what you wish," he said at last, tearing his eyes away from the portrait. "I cannot say for certain whether I believe Mademoiselle Daaé, but I do believe you. You are not a liar and you are not a fool. If nothing is reported to me come the end of the week, then the matter will be dropped and the men paid off."

Raoul stared at him for a moment, his mind devoid of thought or opinion or any words that he could have said to convey his surprise. "Oh, Philippe, that is a relief to hear. My conscience can now be clear when I see Christine next and I do not have to worry myself over deceiving her. You shall soon see that she spoke truthfully, Philippe," he grinned, "and I shall accept your apology come the following Sunday."

Philippe said nothing, setting his mouth into a thin line, but prided himself over Raoul's reaction. "I shall also cease with trying to marry you off," he added, allowing himself to smile at his companion's widening eyes. "You have been patient and diligent, greeting every eligible woman I and our sisters, have thrown at you, but enough is enough. You are old enough to make your own way."

A sudden need to stand and embrace him overcame Raoul and it took all of his will power to remain seated for the present. This change of heart suited him well and Raoul began to wonder the cause of it—perhaps his visitations to the Opéra's Prima Ballerina's dressing room were not simple dalliances as he had first thought. But what had begun as a sense of pride and brotherly love quickly transcended into a realm of guilt.

"I did not mean what I said before, Philippe," he began, sheepishly and with head bowed. "To say that you didn't understand... that you couldn't... Well, it was thoughtless and unprovoked."

A half smile touched Philippe's lips as he gazed at the face of the mantel clock. "I care for her, Raoul," he finally admitted, a frown reaching his brow at this realisation that had dawned on him all too late. "I dote on her, in fact, more than she knows."

"Philippe, I—" His words fell silent as he saw the shake of Philippe's head. "I still should not have made the claim."

Clearing his throat, Philippe turned on him with a purpose to clear the air between them and cease all this talk. A knowing look passed from one brother to the other, an awkward yet mutual understanding that had their sisters been there, they would have sought to never let either of them forget this conversation.

"Will you join me in a glass of port?" Philippe asked, laughing with ease over the young man's docile grin.

Rising to his feet, Raoul clapped his hand onto Philippe's shoulder and nodded. "Although that is not the most enticing proposal to come out of your mouth today, Philippe, I shall gladly join you."


	34. Chapter 34

Despite his valiant attempts at shielding Christine from the truth, Erik knew the time had come for him to confront his past. They were to be joined in matrimony and he could not allow her to bind herself to him without _knowing_ him. It was a decision he had swiftly come upon, but it was also one that he had been putting off. For days, they had co-existed quite harmoniously, neither raising their voices, even in mock annoyance, and Erik was loathe to break this tranquil equilibrium. But to him, it was merely the calm before the storm and he would be damned if he dragged Christine down with him. He had lied to her for long enough about the hidden parts of his life. The truth was a necessity that she sorely needed to know about. Her passive words, her constant reassuring that she would not pry, were merely a pretence.

It was time she knew the man she claimed to love.

"I do not believe I have been in a parlour as nice as this before," he told her as they sat opposite one another on the eve of their wedding. It was a terrible excuse at polite conversation and he was certain his words sounded more like a forced attempt to dispel the silence around them than anything else. Had he felt particularly gloomy, he would have also mentioned that this was in fact the _only_ parlour he had been in.

Christine smiled at him and casually glanced about her, admiring the furnishings on the walls and floor. Although it was a well-mannered response to such an awkward utterance, she still reacted as one who did not know what else to do. Erik did not blame her one bit, however, as he brooded in his seat, his body tense and his fingers drumming against the arm rest.

The crackle of the fire invaded their otherwise quiet moment and, with the door shut and the heavy curtains drawn behind him, he could almost imagine that they were underground again. It was a sullen move, for him to resort to pining for his damp and morbid abode, but everything felt so secure there, so contained, so manageable. Not like here. His eyes drank in the surrounding decadence with a grateful appraisal, yet he could also not help but feel like he did not belong. Of course, he had no such business being in a house like this, and he was only allowed to venture into this one at the discretion of Christine. Somehow, sitting in a room as fine as this one, merely sitting, as though part of the room itself, felt awfully bizarre. How could one just sit there? He looked over at Christine, who seemed to take pleasure in it.

"Christine," he said, breaking the silence and as she turned her head towards him, he suddenly felt his courage leave him. He gaped, his mouth opening and closing unintelligently as she just continued to stare at him. Finally, he huffed in frustration and looked away. The absence of her eyes on him seemed to make his words flow more naturally now. "Are you... happy? Truly happy?"

"Yes. I would not be marrying you tomorrow, otherwise," she told him and he could hear the smile in her light voice, the truth in the way she spoke. "And on that note, I think you should leave. It is getting rather late and I think we both need as much sleep as we can manage."

"I will leave, and soon," he promised immediately, "but..."

Her head tilted to the side as she realised that perhaps wishing for a long slumber was too much to hope for. She watched his fingers flex and his overall nervous disposition with increasing unease. "What is it?" she asked when he did not speak up again.

His gaze seemed fixed on the fire, his eyes wide, before it quickly flickered to his mask that was propped up on the mantel piece. Christine followed his gaze with a brewing hatred stirring in her heart and she wondered if they would ever be rid of the horrid thing. She did not even know how many masks he owned, but nor did she wish to know. To see it sitting there above them like an overshadowing presence or a sacred relic to worship under, however, made her seethe.

"Do you not wish for better?" he asked, drawing her attention away from the mask, though his own gaze was still on it. "Do you not want... _more_?"

"What more is there? I want _you_ ," she proclaimed without a shred of girlish hesitation, wanting nothing more than to stride over to him and make him watch as she burned his mask. "Shall we travel back several months and have you tell me that I cannot have you; that I could never possibly want to share my life with you?" She did not even realise she had raised her voice until Erik finally looked at her, his features drawn down like a scolded schoolboy's. "What is this about?" she asked him softly.

He leaned towards her in his chair and stared at her with such coldness that she almost shrank away. She would later blame the light of the fire, but his black eyes seemed both wild and dead as they looked at her now, like the beady glare of a predator about to pounce on its prey. His fingers dug into his knees like claws into the ground and the horrible reminder of how dangerous he could be felt like a series of sharp blows against her cheek.

"I think you have a right to know who you are marrying," he told her, much to her confusion, as he rose to his feet. A part of her was glad when he did not approach her for she did not think she could have stopped herself from involuntarily shying away from him.

"I am marrying _Erik_ ," she said once she was certain that her voice would not fail her. Hearing it fill the entire room with its strength gave her the courage to face him. "That is all I need know."

"No, it's not," he droned unhappily. "I can see it in your eyes. You do not pester me with questions anymore, but your curiosity is burning you from the inside." Before she could protest, the sight of him picking up his mask stole her words away. He held it in both hands, with the very tips of his fingers. "Before I could be swaddled in blankets or even cleaned after my birth, my face was smothered in cloth. I was told it was a horrid piece, torn from the bloody sheets onto which I was born. They could not bring themselves to cover me with anything hygienic, I dare say. They thought me dead at first and perhaps they were so careless because they thought I would not live out the night... Maybe they were so because they did not _want_ me to live."

"Do not say that," Christine said, horrified at what she had just been told. She had quickly realised what he was doing—that his trust in her had reached the point where he was finally able to open up to her—but from the little he had revealed just now, Christine felt like she was being told an awful tale to frighten her, rather than a recount of a real man's life. And this was only the beginning.

"My mother could not bear to look at me," he retorted, glancing over his shoulder at her to project his biting words. "Christine, I did not know your mother. Tell me, was she as cruel and beautiful as mine? Did she refuse to touch you, too? Did she refuse to _look_ at you unless you were completely covered from head to foot?"

Speechless, Christine bowed her head and released a quivering breath. "H-How despicable."

"Oh, I have barely scratched the surface, my love, and so I would appreciate it gladly if you do not interrupt or even comment until I am finished. We shall be here all night then, I fear... and I do not wish to dwell on the past for longer than I need to."

She looked up and felt her heart lighten as she saw the softness in his eyes. "But if this is bringing you pain—"

"No. This is something I must do and it is something that you need to hear. I know this. I should not have kept you from the truth." He sighed, placing the mask back down on the mantel piece. "You say that you are marrying Erik, but I cannot even legally prove that. Not through evidence not forged by my own hand, anyway... My mother did not give me my name."

Shaken by his revelation, Christine was left searching for the words to describe such a being as this woman, but she could find none to suitably label her.

"She did not look at me often, but I could not help but look at her, and despite her behaviour, I could also not help but crave her affection. I soon learnt, however, that this want was unjustified in her eyes. One day, I asked her for a kiss. It was done out of an inability to keep quiet for one more second and I would not have minded if she had declined and left it at that, but she was not a pleasant woman and she saw it as her duty to correct my wrong doings. She dragged me to her mirror, yanked the mask from my face and screamed at me. She pointed to my face and body, holding my wrist tightly in one hand, and told me that _this_ was why she would never kiss me. This was why no woman would ever kiss me." When he caught Christine's eye, it unnerved her to see him smiling. "You cannot begin to imagine how ecstatic and scared I am whenever you kiss me. I still expect to wake and find out that it was all a dream...

"The only time she deemed me worth her time," he continued, "was after she caught me playing her piano. When I played, it was like we were a normal family. I could pretend that I was not disfigured and she was not cruel. I like to think she, too, even forgot about how I looked when I played for her, and so I practised and practised until I could entertain her for hours."

Christine seldom thought on the reasons behind his abilities anymore, but now her mind would not stop drawing its own conjectures. Was his meticulous playing merely a result of a desperate need to please his mother? Was this why he was so diligent and strict in his teachings? A lump formed in her throat as she recalled the first time he had taken her down to his underground home. To keep her pacified and in a state of calm, he also had played for hours on end. With a shudder, she wondered if at first he had seen the image of his mother when he had looked at her then.

"Over the next few years, I gained a lot of knowledge from my books and I soon began to strengthen my voice. I spent a great deal of time by myself and I taught myself how to speak with different voices, different accents, different tones. There was a window in the attic and I would listen to the people passing by, listening to the way they spoke and then learning to mimic them. It was a lonely existence, was it not?" His hand moved to grip the edge of the mantel, to secure him to the present. "My mother thought my voice was the Devil's work. In a way, it might have been. As I grew older, I moved away from imaginary friends and I liked to have my fun with her. I would throw my voice and make her believe that spirits were speaking to her. I very nearly drove her mad," he admitted, furrowing his brow, but not in regret. "Perhaps I did. But it was what she deserved.

"I ran away soon afterwards," he continued, tightening his grip. "I couldn't take living like that, but I only wish I had the foresight to see what lay ahead of me. Sometimes I wonder if my life would have been better if I had stayed with her. It would not have been a happy life, yes, and I suppose she would have inevitably left me, but I would have been sheltered from the world." A noise left his closed mouth, something that Christine thought was a short, but humourless laugh, before he turned to smile at her. "Ah, but then I would not have met you, dear heart."

She returned his smile weakly, but Erik still appreciated the gesture. It was a firm sign that she was not entirely disgusted by his tale, though he was far from finished.

"I travelled extensively," he added, feeling the lick of flames against his skin. "Most men can boast their visiting of one or two continents, perhaps half a dozen or so countries, but I have seen far more. My tastes of life came at a distance. I observed, but I never participated. I observed through the veil of death— _Le Mort Vivant_ , that was what they called me. A corpse with an angel's voice...

"In shadow, I have seen both the creation and the destruction of life, the rise and the fall of empires. If there is one constant thing in this withering world, Christine, it is man's hatred. That will never change. The human race is destined to destroy itself, one way or another. Living is merely the obstacle we face, the first and only hurdle we must conquer before we each reach our final destination. But in this, I envy you, my love."

He turned to see the bewildered, yet caring look on her face and it brought such a warmth to his heart that he felt as though he could have power to defeat anything. "Your faith," he explained, "it both repulses and intrigues me. I have sometimes caught myself picturing a life after this one and what relief, what redemption will come to you as you stand at Heaven's gates. But I digress...

"The farthest I have travelled was to India—a muddy climate, but a beautiful one. It was there that I harnessed my skill for the Punjab lasso." At this, Christine visibly flinched, no doubt in memory of the poor stage-hand Joseph Bouquet, his lifeless body swinging back and forth. "Its wielding was a game to some and a deadly weapon for others. I found a combination of the two in my practice. I also came to learn other abilities in my travels. To me, they were simply parlour tricks, but to the masses, they were sorcery and full of magic and wonderment. Some people will find the most morbid things amusing..." Here his voice took on a darker timbre, a low rumble which lined the tone of his words with unspoken hardships.

"Rumour of my talents spread and I soon acquired work in Persia. It could have been a high point in my life had I not hated every moment of it. You see, I was under contract of the Shah, to design and construct buildings and other... devices. Oh, some were harmless enough—passageways, secret entrances, palace extensions, hidden rooms, but the Shah was soon able to see the potential in my designs. I was ordered to construct instruments of torture. One chamber you will no doubt find familiar. It was a variant of the one the Vicomte and the Daroga found themselves in on that night so very long ago. Ah, yes, the Daroga... This is where I met him, Christine.

"My success in devising these instruments brought my talent to a more hands on approach. I became a pawn in political games, an assassin without mercy, something as disposable as it was indispensable. Death did not frighten me. I have been threatened with it too many times that it has become meaningless. But I could not escape the position I had been placed in. Through my visits, the Daroga soon learned of my more recent doings and tried to stop me from coming to him and his son. You know now the true reason he objected to my tonic. He did not wish for his son to become my next victim."

Erik sighed, the strain rolling from his shoulders as he leaned against the mantel piece once more. He had never explicitly spoken about his past and the rush of memories was beginning to flood his body with unwanted tension. It sat at the pit of his stomach, stirring but never wavering.

"He did not hate me for it, however," he murmured. "I am sure, in some way, he appreciated the sentiment... Why else would he help me to escape Mazanderan? I had become something of a liability, you understand. My control was waning and it had become noticeable. My hatred towards my employer was not unknown and he began to fear that I would betray his secrets. Perhaps he even feared for his life. Whatever the case, I became a wanted man. My demise was ordered and the Daroga was placed in the role of my executioner. But he could not bring himself to do it. He helped me to leave that wretched land on the promise that I would never kill again." Another mirthless laugh escaped him. "Now you know why the old man never ceases to invade my life. He is bound by the promise I have broken."

Running a hand over his hair, Erik looked everywhere but at his beloved. "I was only able to escape being hunted because of a corpse that had washed up on the shore. The water had claimed the identity of the man by ravaging his face and the open wounds on his body had helped to mutilate any distinguishable features. A lucky coincidence, you could say, but the body was mistaken for me and the Daroga was exiled in his aiding of a criminal's escape. I ruined his life, his career... and yet he will not be rid of me...

"My time in Persia was a series of experiences, and I still bare the marks of some of them."

He frowned at his own words as he began to shrug out of his evening jacket. Christine opened her mouth to question what he was doing, but as he began to unbutton his cuffs on one arm and roll up his sleeve, her heart filled with dread. The white of his skin was just slightly darker than his shirt and Christine braced herself as he walked towards her, arm outstretched.

She could barely withhold her gasp, her hand flying up to cover her mouth, as she moved into the light and forced herself to not look away. Amongst bright veins and sharp bones were the 'marks', the _scars_ , to which he had referred. Faded slashes here and there, long and short, covered his forearm, along with that looked like small sections of marred flesh, burnt and blistered.

"Who did this to you?"

"Their names are lost to me," he answered, detached, looking at the scars as she did. "I only remember the pain. Knife wounds. A whip. Fire. A bullet." With his other hand he then reached down and scooped up hers. Their eyes met as he slowly guided her hand over his arm, letting her fingers touch or not touch at their own will. As Christine felt the uneven ridges, a vivid image burned in her mind, a memory of Erik screaming at her after she had first removed his mask. He had taken her hands then too, dragging her fingernails across his bare face until she drew blood. Now, she was almost moved by the antithesis of the situation until he moved her fingers to trace a scar on the underside of his wrist. "This one was done by my own hand," he stated plainly, not caring when she quickly recoiled from it, but he found himself kneeling by her side. "Do you think any less of me?"

"No," she told him, impassioned, reaching for his shoulders. She held them fiercely as she glanced back down at the self-inflicted scar.

Shunning him was the very worst thing she could do, especially when she had threatened to do such a thing herself. She had been terrified, nearly out of her mind with fear when she had first experienced Erik's lack of stability, and she had stolen a pair of scissors to keep with her at all times. Looking back, she could not remember if the blade was meant for her skin or his, but she only knew of it now as a last resort.

One hand fell from his shoulder to again trace his wrist before something caught her eye and she frowned. Moving her fingers upwards, she came to a stop at the withered skin on the crease of his elbow and what looked like tiny... puncture wounds.

As quickly as she had previously withdrawn, Erik yanked his arm away from her, leaving her fingers to hover in the air dejectedly. Christine did not need him to tell her what the cause of those marks were and though a flurry of questions hung on the tip of her tongue, she showed him that she respected his privacy by not asking.

"You are the only one to have shown me compassion," he whispered as he rolled his sleeve back down.

Drawing her near, he nuzzled the skin of her cheek, closing his eyes when she did not reject him. He swallowed thickly before pulling back, his breath uneven and haggard as he peered into her eyes. She had not shed a single tear, and what was left shimmering in those clear irises made him hope that all this had not been in vain.

"I am a sinner who does not deserve your forgiveness," he murmured, lowering his head until it rested on her knees, "let alone the forgiveness of God. But there is... one more thing I have not told you, and _swore_ that I would never tell you."

After all that he had already professed, Christine felt as though she could weather the harshest storm. Laying one hand on his upper arm, she asked, "What is it?"

He did not raise his head as he answered. "Did you ever wonder why I would not allow you to return to my home after you moved?"

His question was... strange. It was not at all what she had expected, though she was not certain what she _had_ been expecting. She looked down at him with fearful curiosity. "What has this to do with anything?"

One of his hands slowly crept up to grip the arm of the settee, while the other lightly pressed down onto the seat beside her, ultimately trapping her. She felt him shake his head against her skirts. "It is no longer a safe haven."

"What do you mean? People have... found their way through?"

"Some have tried," he muttered, raising his head to rest his bony chin on her knees. "Most became lost in the tunnels and not even I could save them from what lies within. But there was an incident, a little over a month ago, an incident I have sought to keep from you. I was not in a sane state, and exhaustion had warped my sense of reality, but as I was walking through a passageway, I realised that I was not alone. Before I knew what had happened, I had a dead body at my feet."

The cold detachment in his delivery, the vacant expression in his eyes, unnerved Christine greatly. And to know that he had killed again made her want to tear herself from his side. It was as if she carried the souls of his victims within her, for she knew she was able to feel each death laden her heart with misery.

"Wh-Who was it?" she asked when she had kept silent for too long.

"I do not know," he confessed with a sigh. "A gendarme."

"A _gendarme_?" she gasped, the blood draining from her face. "Why did you not tell me this?" she cried, causing his sullen mood to melt away to shame. Suddenly, she reached out and grabbed his face, holding him firmly, her gaze deep and inescapable. When her judgement proved too great a power to endure, however, Erik tried to look away, but her fervent words stopped him. "So this is why you have hardly returned to below the Opéra yourself... You should have told me sooner."

His mouth twisted into a grimace. "You are angry."

"Of course I am angry, Erik!" she nearly yelled at him. Her tongue had been held, her comments silenced, but now she felt her rage for all that he had been subject to boil over. "I do not know whether I can forgive you for your wrong doings in Persia. You were manipulated and it was beyond your power and though you did what you had to do to survive, I do not approve of your actions. I also cannot forgive you for this killing." He said nothing, his hands coming up to limply cover hers, but never trying to remove her grip. To him, her hands were like shackles he could not escape from, only this time, he would stop at nothing to repent. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?" she asked gently, her tone making his eyes close in guilt. "Will you not even argue that it was in self-defence?"

She didn't quite know why she asked that last question, but she immediately began to hope that she had cause for it. That hope, however, was ill-fated when he shook his head. A foreboding silence followed his answer before she gave a small thwarted cry and looked directly into his eyes. "Erik, you must promise me never to kill again. _Never_. Do you hear me, Erik? You must swear to it!"

Her desperation came through and he returned her gaze stoically. "Even if I am defending myself?"

"If it is avoidable, then yes!" She brought their faces closer, her breath light on his cheek. " _Please_. No more killing, Erik, no more killing. You broke your promise to Nadir, but if you ever break mine then you shall also break my heart!"

"No more killing," he echoed in agreement before he felt the gentle tug on his hands. With a nod, she guided him to sit beside her and he sighed. "Christine... What separates me from the others?"

She frowned. "I do not understand."

"What difference is there between myself and an agent of the law, or a gendarme or a soldier?" His fingers flexed in the air as if they could find a tangible answer. "They kill and some are even hailed as heroes. Erik has never been deemed a hero. Nor would he like to be. How can men be awarded for killing? It is horrible... _horrible._.. I was made to do it, and now I cannot help it. I was trained and I cannot be untrained." He looked to her for answers; Christine could see this in every twitching feature of his face. "Tell me, _please_ , what is the difference?"

"You showed no remorse," she whispered, knowing full well that she would not give him a route through which to escape from his crimes. "Murder is murder, no matter how honourable or defensible."

Instead of condemning the unchangeable past, she knew she had to focus on the broken pieces left behind. With all her might, she would try to mend them again, but she could not be looked upon as a saviour. Not again. More than anything, she needed Erik to see her as someone who was not afraid to help him, to know him. She needed him to see her than more than just an innocent, a friend and even a woman.

She needed him to see her as an equal.

"In Stockholm, when I was a child, the winters could be terribly bitter." Her olive branch began here. She only hoped that he would accept it. "I did not like how everything began to suddenly shrivel and die; and my father would catch me, on more than one occasion, bringing in rocks and flowers I had pulled from the earth and stuffed into my pockets, just so that they may be warm and begin to grow again by the fire. He would try to convince me, sitting me down on his knee, to stop doing that. But I only wanted to preserve something beautiful, to let it grow old and live its full life.

"One day, I was playing in my room when I heard a tapping at my window. I looked up and I saw a small bird, no bigger than my palm, chirping at me. It couldn't have been very old, barely out of the nest, but it was there, tapping at my window. I took pity on it and wanted to bring it into the house, but when I went towards it, it flew away. I thought no more on it until the next day, when it returned and continued to tap at my window." She smiled in sweet reminiscence. "I ran to my father and told him of the little bird that would not leave me alone and so he laid out some grain on the window sill and, sure enough, it came to us.

"It wasn't very beautiful, not like my flowers. Its feathers were thin in places, but I still wanted it. I kept it in a cage, feeding it on my own, teaching it to eat out of my hand, to do as I wanted because it was something I had saved and I wanted it to remain that way. It even sang when I sang. I did not understand then, why it would stretch its wings and cry whenever I did not allow it to fly, not even when I awoke one day to find it dead on the bottom of its cage."

Her fingers moved to intertwine with his, even as she stared at the floor. "My story does not even compare to yours. However, I hope you understand why I have chosen to tell you it." She turned to look at him, her head tilted as she studied his distorted face lovingly. "I loved that bird, but I killed it because of my own selfishness and lack of understanding. Do not ever allow me to do the same to you."

He blinked in surprise, as if this was the very last thing he had expected to hear. A breathy laugh hung on his tongue as he peered down at their joined hands, his thumb roaming over her ring, before looking back up at her. With a wave of disbelief, he asked, "You fear my death?"

"I fear I will be the cause of it," she replied, only to then have herself pulled across his lap, his arms wrapping around her tightly as he rested his forehead against hers. Startled but not deterred by his action, Christine closed her eyes and settled herself in his embrace, winding her arms around his neck.

"I am not a bird," came his whisper, tickling her ear with its deep resonance.

"But it was still a _life_ ," she exclaimed tiredly. "You have been dealt so much cruelty and I am a part of it. I have been cruel to you. Yes, I have," she protested when she heard him draw in a breath. "Do not deny it." Raising her head, she cupped his cheek and smiled sadly. "I do not want to hold you back from living."

"Oh, my love," he cooed, pressing her palm to his skin and leaning into her touch. Returning the smile, he sighed. "You have done well not to cry for me."

"I do not want to cry for you," she declared. "I have shed enough tears for an entire lifetime. I want to show you that I can be strong now. I _want_ to be strong for you and for me." Her mouth pulled down into a sudden grimace. "I want to let you spread your wings before I end up clipping them and forcing you into another type of cage."

To her amazement, he tapped her nose playfully. "Silly girl," he scolded affectionately, his voice taking on a dream-like quality. "You have created a life for me. But this is most definitely not a cage we sit in. It is a house, and soon we shall have our own house so that we can live the lives we have made for each other. Is that not a wonderful thing?"

A choked laugh left her mouth as her smile grew. "Yes, I suppose it is."

"You have consented to be my wife, Christine. You have kissed me and you have loved me." His fingers threaded through her hair as he spoke. "Caging me is not what you have done. You have set me free."

A second later she echoed his gesture by winding her fingers in his thin hairs before surging upwards to find his lips. Erik's muffled moan was swallowed by her sudden kiss and he gave into her, wanting to weep at her feet in the wake of her acceptance.

When he pulled away, he sighed happily, kissing her forehead, his lips moving against her as he said, "I suppose, in a way, we are the same."

"How ever are we the same?" she asked curiously.

He pressed another kiss to her skin before whispering, "We are both survivors."


	35. Chapter 35

The sound of the soft, soothing droplets landing against the balcony doors was the only thing Christine could hear. Yawning, she sat up in bed, the sheets pooling around her waist as she drew her legs up to her chest. Her eyes closed to savour the peaceful morning and opened again at the realisation that this would be the last time she would wake up alone. The thought teased a bashful smile to her lips and she fell back against her pillow in a state of relaxation.

Mme Dumas had been given the weekend off, she recalled, and so she was very much alone until the Girys arrived to help her ready herself for the ceremony. As much as she had come to loathe the silence during her time underground, Christine was appreciative of the lack of noise around her now. With only the drone of raindrops beating down outside, she allowed her sleep laden mind to think of nothing as she lay there contently.

The revelations of the previous night had shook her to her core and though she wanted to weep for Erik, she knew that would not do anything to _help_ him. For now, she would smother him with the love he never had and she would face whatever may come their way as his wife and as his equal.

The early morning passed fairly quickly and it was not long before there was a knock at the front door, signalling the arrival of her friends—or rather, just Mme Giry, to Christine's surprise.

"Is Meg not coming?" she asked as the woman removed her outdoor wear and shook the wetness from her cloak.

"Yes, yes, she is, my dear. Do not worry yourself." Wasting no time at all, Mme Giry then shooed Christine up the stairs before she could even have a chance to reply.

Idle chatter was exchanged as the older woman watched over the ablutions, faltering only briefly when Christine first saw herself in the dress of white lace and satin. Smiling kindly, Mme Giry guided the young bride to her vanity table where she began to brush out her tangled curls until each one was as smooth as the silk she wore. Her expert fingers combed through the young woman's hair as she began to hum, her mind taking her back to a time when she did this with Meg.

"How are we feeling today?" she asked, busy in her work, pinning and braiding.

When she did not hear an answer, she flickered her gaze up to the mirror to see Christine appraising herself quietly. Her gown complemented her complexion well, and though she appeared quite drained in some lights, the rosiness on her cheeks was in full bloom. _Good_ , Mme Giry thought, _that is a good sign_.

Up until that very day, Mme Giry had not denied that she still held some doubts over the forthcoming marriage. When she had first heard of their intentions, she had not stayed silent, which resulted in a very regrettable argument. But as the girl showed no sign of hesitation or that she had been goaded into such an arrangement, Mme Giry began to ease into the idea of their marriage.

An embarrassed smile reached Christine's lips as she spoke and pulled the older woman out of her musings. "Terribly nervous. Does it show?"

"Yes," Mme Giry admitted, but with an air of maternal fondness. "You shall be every bit the blushing bride."

Christine lowered her head a little at these words, only for her to be scolded for moving so suddenly when her hair was still not in place. She murmured an apology before continuing, "Thank you, Madame, for your support, especially during this past month. I know you did not immediately warm to my engagement, but I am so glad that you did. I do not think I could have soldiered on without a kind word from you."

It warmed the Mme Giry's heart to hear her say this, to know that her presence and aid had not been in vain. Now that Christine was without a motherly figure to guide her, she had taken it upon herself to see to the girl's needs, whether that be support of any kind or even a simple answer to a question. She had been such a shy thing when she had first arrived at the Opéra, Mme Giry remembered, and through performance, and _his_ tutelage, she had seen her grow into the woman sitting before her now. Yes, she was a woman, Mme Giry added to herself. Perhaps she should start referring to her as that more often, but with her own daughter engaged to be married, she could not help but feel a surge of motherly love and want again when Christine had turned to her for guidance.

"I cannot imagine being in your place, dear," she told her honestly, "but I wish you happiness all the same. It is the least you deserve, and I am certain that those above us are wishing this for you, too."

A sigh escaped Christine's parted lips as she looked up at the woman behind her and smiled bravely. She prayed with all that was within her that it was true, that her dear, departed loved ones were indeed watching over her and were happy with the decisions she had made. She wished only to make them proud.

"I hope he is good to you," Mme Giry then added, finishing her work on her hair and stepping back to view it on all sides.

"He is, and he will be," Christine told her confidently. "Thank you."

A brisk knock at the front door redirected the attentions of both women behind them. Mme Giry smiled and laid a hand on Christine's shoulder. "That will be Meg. I will answer it."

For a moment, the young bride was left alone and she tilted her head to see the fine job Mme Giry had done, but as the sound of footsteps faded away, she was left again in that peaceful silence. Here sat a bride, she mused, a _wife_. She had thought that never again would she bear the ring of another man on her finger, but here she was, about to take the first steps towards the rest of her life.

"Christine?" Meg's quiet call echoed from the front door and soon she heard her heavy steps plodding up the stairs. "Christine, are you decent?" She rounded the corner to her bedchamber. "Are... Oh, Maman, does she not look beautiful?" A small smile coming to her lips as she saw her friend. "Did you style her hair?" she asked her mother somewhat sourly as she appeared beside her. "I confess, Christine, I am a little jealous of you. Maman has never taken the trouble with me before."

"You have never stayed still before," Mme Giry reminded her, looking back over her shoulder to throw a teasing grin at her daughter.

"You may laugh," Meg said, narrowing her eyes, "but I see it as my call to dance shining through."

"Is that so?" her mother answered brightly before looking down at Christine, whose gaze had fallen on her friend. The smile fell slowly from Mme Giry's face as she saw something troubling pass between them. "Do you need a minute alone together?" she offered. Christine nodded, smiling faintly though she now stared into her lap. Mme Giry looked at Meg, who also appeared to take more interest in her hands than anything else, and said, "I'll take my leave, then."

Once the door shut behind her, Meg sheepishly glanced up at her friend and said, "You really do look beautiful."

"Your mother is the one to thank for that miracle," she replied, lowering her gaze to the scent bottle in front of her. She reached out tentatively before grasping it and applying a small dab of the liquid onto her skin.

"You are happy?" Christine heard her ask as she rubbed her wrists together.

"Should I not be?" she answered quietly before sighing and laying her palms flat out against the vanity table. "Meg, what is it? You have been acting strangely these past weeks. I can't help but feel as though you have been distancing yourself from me."

"Oh, Christine. I'm sorry you felt that way, I didn't know... I..." She sat down on the chair by the cold fireplace and gazed off to the side. "I do not mean to trouble you, not on today of all days."

"If you have something you need to say, then please, say it." Christine turned around on the seat to face her friend expectantly. Her vacant expression was not new to her and dread began to settle in her stomach as she waited.

"I have not been distancing myself," Meg at least told her, "at least, not intentionally. I did not see it that way, you see, but I apologise if _you_ did. You know I want only the best for you, and it is because of that that I say this now." Her eyes met Christine's with an uncharacteristic steeliness. "I do not like the idea of my friend marrying a man such as... well... _him_."

Christine did not know whether to laugh in relief or chide her on her timing. Sighing, she merely softened her words to a murmur and said, "I had an inkling to your disapproval, but quite frankly, I do not care. I know of your worries, Meg, but I am of age and I do not need to concern myself with anybody's permission or approval but my own."

"I'm sorry," she told her truthfully, threading her fingers together on her lap, "but I had to speak my mind. A year ago, there was no question of whom you wished to marry."

"And there is none now," Christine defended quietly, looking away for she knew the unfavourable features on Meg's face would surely act like flint to her sparking fire.

"Yes, but you told me the Vicomte is still in love with you."

"I told you that in confidence," she reminded her sharply. "Why should that make a difference?"

"Because _you_ are still in love with him!" she cried.

And just like that, the fire inside her began to rage. Christine snapped her head back around to face Meg with wild eyes. "I will always love Raoul, but do not dare suggest that I am settling for someone else or that I am willing to tie myself to a man whom I do not love! I love Erik very much. Do not forget that."

Exasperated, Meg shook her head. "You are mad."

Christine rose to her feet, her hands clenched and cried back, "Then perhaps it is fitting that I am marrying a madman!"

Meg stared wide-eyed at her friend and the transformation that had come over her. At the very first sound of that rage induced tone, she had flinched, immediately regretting her choice of words. And indeed, she did regret it. She had never thought ill of Christine, but her rejection of the Vicomte continued to baffle her. With her head hung low, Meg swallowed her pride and earnestly apologised.

The meek words uttered from her friend's lips began to make her anger ebb away, yet Christine could not simply forgive Meg for her attempts to dampen her wedding day with injected doubts and regrets.

"You apologise for your words, but you still choose my wedding day to tell me your true thoughts," Christine said, her tone still as sharp as her glare. "Did you think you could get me to change my mind?"

Meg's mouth opened and closed repeatedly like a fish out of water, gasping for another chance at life. Ultimately, she sighed and looked up. "I never wanted to do that. Christine, you must believe that I would never... But you would not believe me, would you? I wish for you to be happy—"

"Am I not capable of being happy with Erik?" Christine interrupted, suddenly growing weary from their bitter exchange.

"I never said that—"

"Perhaps not, but you have said quite enough already." With a long sigh, Christine pressed her fingers to her temples and found Meg's cautious gaze. It would not do to argue like this. "If you will not attend for my sake, then please," she said softly, "will you not attend the wedding of the man who helped to arrange yours?"

The expression on Meg's face was something Christine would never forget. " _What_?"

"It is true," Christine admitted, "Erik knew, somehow. He knew of your betrothal before it was ever announced, before you even came to know the Baron, I dare say."

In a fit of disbelief, Meg began to shake her head again. "But... _how_?"

"I never asked," Christine answered, walking over to her slowly.

Meg seemed to understand this, the flicker of doubt and suspicion alight across her face. "How can you be sure it is not a lie?" she asked finally, not wishing to provoke a response other than a soothing answer to this burning question.

"Why on earth would he have cause to lie about it?" Laying a guarded hand on her shoulder, Christine looked down at her companion sadly. "You do not know him as I do, Meg. No one does... You cannot understand my devotion to him and my want to make him happy, Lord knows he deserves it. Sometimes I weep when I think of how accomplished he could have been, had he been handsome... Is it selfish to be glad of this? Had he been handsome, I would surely not be marrying him."

Meg had watched her as she spoke, had seen the haze that had glassed over her eyes and though she was still uncomfortable with the whole arrangement, she knew that what she had attempted was foolish. Her friend's words were threaded with nothing other than loyalty. "You will truly be content with him?"

"I believe so," Christine said, smiling. "More so, in fact."

Meg reflected that smile, one corner of her lip curling up into a knowing smirk. "Then I shall appear quite the hellcat if I leave you with nothing more than spiteful words."

Christine's face lit up and she gave a breathy gasp of relief. "Do you mean it?"

"Yes," she said, standing up. "However, I will understand if you do not want me there."

"Oh, Meg," she whispered, taking her in her arms and embracing her fiercely. "Dear Meg, of course you must come. I would not dream of it any other way."

Meg pulled back to look at her incredulously. "How could you still want me to attend after what I have said?"

Simply, Christine smiled and raised a hand to cup her cheek. "Because you're my friend and I want you there. I would be grateful for your smiling face."

After a few more sentimental words, Meg left to ready the carriage with her mother and to allow Christine her final moments of privacy.

Looking down at the opened boxes on her bed and at the array of white material, Christine ran her fingers over her folded veil before picking it up. She held it carefully as she sat back down at the mirror, her heart leaping when she pressed the garment to her lips. Her reverent kiss spoke for her and any words she had thought to voice became obsolete. With great care, she then placed the veil upon her head, her hands sliding down the edges before coming to rest in her lap.

"I will make you a good wife, my love. I promise you this," she whispered before rising and making her way down the stairs.

The Girys were waiting for her at the bottom and they each began to fuss over her appearance, a hand reaching out to straighten her train, fingers curling around an escaped strand of hair to pin it back in its place. Christine at first felt like a doll, the way she was being handled and treated, but she merely smiled and allowed the women to flap about until they deemed her truly presentable. Mme Giry gently took her arm and guided her towards the door, murmuring to her all the while to not be nervous.

Outside, the carriage awaited. At the sight of it, Christine came to a halt, her smile falling from her face, but it was the symbolic touch of a hand on her wrist that made her come to her senses. She looked to her side and saw Meg, standing there with her fingers entwined with hers. Christine's heart soared at her support and knew, just by that reassuring gesture, that she had the strength to tackle anything this day might throw at her.

With one last shared look, all three of them entered the carriage.

o0o

It was not yet late afternoon when the party quietly exited the chapel, but darkness had already descended upon them. They had agreed that they would not be travelling back together for a celebration and though no one opened their mouth to voice such a thing, everyone was thankful to go their separate ways.

In the light of the chapel, Christine stood, her hands outstretched and entwined with Meg's as the two women silently said their goodbyes. Mme Giry and Nadir embraced her in turn, murmuring words into her ear that she did not entirely register. Her mind was elsewhere and during their parting, Christine's gaze would continuously stray down the pathway to where the carriage waited to whisk her away. Before she would turn her attention back to her friends, however, her eyes would then remain on the moving shadow that lingered just beyond the threshold of the chapel and beyond the light. The penetrable glints from those two black eyes never failed to make her shiver.

Her heartbeat slowed and her chest felt as though it would cave in when she stepped from that light and into the darkness. Towards the shadow, she then drifted, her arm blindly reaching out for _him and_ his touch. The ring on her extended hand gleamed like a beacon as his gloved fingers found her at last, pulling her gently along with path beside him.

His tentative touch burned through her thick layers and she had half a mind to tear herself away from him, but all her thoughts and doubts vanished as she peered up at his face, his sharp chin more visible now, and instinctively leaned closer to him.

His head turned towards her and he raised her captured hand to his mouth, his lips hovering over her ring. His actions made her stop walking momentarily, as did he, and when their eyes met, she again felt that irrefutable pull towards him. Seconds later, her lips were pressed against his, a gentle reminder of their joining.

"My wife," Erik whispered, his voice a deep rumble that pierced her body easily, as if it were a knife.

Bewitched, she allowed her husband to then guide her through the darkness and to their carriage, not once stopping to look over her shoulder at their party, who was surely watching them.

Only once she was seated and they were on their way did Christine realise just how nervous she still was. Her fingers rubbed the lined lace of her sleeve as the confinement of the carriage began to creep in on her, making her very aware of herself and of Erik. He sat stiffly opposite her—a suitable, far enough distance from her, and yet for an instant she wanted not a jot of space between them.

Her blood raced under her collar and when she thought that she would combust from the inside, his endearing touch to her hand felt like a relief. And yet her nerves did not desist. She was carried into the household by them on shaking legs and as she removed her veil, she bit her lip in thought.

"Come into the parlour," her husband's dulcet voice sounded from behind her and she whirled around on the spot, startled.

With cheeks flushed, she was quite simply the most beautiful bride Erik had ever seen—and she was _his_. He still expected to awaken any second and find out that it was all a despicable hope-provoking dream. But as his eyes filled with the sight of his Christine, his _wife_ , he knew that he was awake.

"Come," he said again, ushering her forward with a flick of his finger.

Inside the parlour, he motioned for Christine to sit whilst he went about lighting the oil lamps. Her hands folded neatly together as she watched him, her expression as vague and as wondering as that of a statue's. She remained in this stoic manner until she saw him reach for something tucked away beside a chair, something she had not noticed until now.

Erik glanced between her and the case before laying it down on the small table beside her. He then removed the contents and sat opposite her, his violin balancing on his lap and his bow in hand. Christine watched him prepare the instrument carefully and when he began to apply the rosin, his hand gliding up and down in a slow hypnotic motion, she knew that this night would not be rushed.

When he finally looked up at her, he offered her a small smile and her heart fluttered unexpectedly. "Is there anything in particular you wish to hear?" he asked as he rose to his feet and positioned the violin under his chin.

Christine thought for a moment before shaking her head and allowing him to close his eyes as he transported her to a world where nothing but music mattered. He played with such raw emotion quivering on those strings that the violin seemed to sing under his touch and Christine nearly wept upon hearing it. But through his woven melodies, she began to relax, her nerves disappearing with ease as she slumped against the back of the settee, her eyes growing heavy with fatigue.

Erik sighed when he saw her smile to his music, but did not stop playing, not until she fell deep into the realms of sleep.

Good, he thought adoringly. Her nerves had been apparent to him from the start, but nothing she did once their vows had been exchanged had made Erik doubt her love or her decision to marry him. And it was with a final sigh that his eyes slipped closed and he succumbed to the knowledge that he was a wedded man. Oh, what joy! What bliss! It was everything he had dreamt of and more. But, without a shred of reluctance, he decided that he would not ask her for anything this night. His darling girl's vows had been more than enough for him, and so to bed, she would go. Alone.

Lowering the violin to its case, he walked over to his sleeping bride and gently scooped her up into his arms. As he began to carry her up the stairs, she shifted her head against his shoulder and he looked down at her with a softness in his eyes. "Sleep, my little love," he whispered to her. "Sleep."

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you to my reviewers and to everyone who is continuing to enjoy this story! :)**


	36. Chapter 36

Christine awoke to something brushing against her cheek, a subtle yet insistent presence she tried to bat away with limp fingers. When the sensation did not cease, however, she cracked open her eyes to see that she was quite alone. At first, she did not understand, but as she lifted her head and peered across the room, she saw that the balcony doors had been left open. Running a hand over her face, she breathed deeply, her eyes slipping shut again as she now welcomed the cool air against her skin. She wondered why that air would feel so soothing when spring had not fully arrived yet, and by all accounts it was not warm outside. It only took a single glance downwards, however, to discover the answer. Even in the darkness, the brilliant white of her wedding gown still managed to gleam back up at her and almost mocked her in its constrictive nature.

Had she slept in this? Her hands poked and prodded the material as she rose to her feet, her torso aching to be freed from the corset it was bound in. Never again would she sleep in such an uncomfortable way. It did prompt her, however, to consider why she would do such a thing in the first place. But as she peered over her shoulder at the empty bed, she knew that this was not her doing.

Her fingers sought out the ties on her dress and began to remove it, pushing the fine material off her shoulders and down her arms. Her bodice and skirts pooled around her ankles and when she reached around to unlace her corset, she felt the slight scrape of her ring against the supports. The reminder that she was now married made her pause in her work, a tremor running down her arms that had nothing to do with the cold in the room.

As she continued to undress, the corset lightly dropping to the floor, she thought of the peculiarity of this wedding night. This was not how it was meant to be, was it? She had never heard of a bride sleeping alone before, and this thought only left her feeling a little unwanted. Certainly, she had been apprehensive about what was to come, but to know that her husband did not even want to sleep beside her dampened her spirits and cut at whatever courage had surged through her earlier that day.

Sitting down on the sheets, she unpinned her hair with unmerciful tugs and leaned over to place the pins on the bedside table. A sigh left her as she straightened her back and rolled her shoulders, leaning her head back so that her muscles could loosen. Her hands soon reached for her garters before she turned her attention to her stockings. Half clouded in sleep, her movements were still lazy and languid, but as more of her skin was revealed to the night air, she found herself incomprehensibly warm. Her eyes closed. A heavy blush had flooded her face, the heat spreading across her body as she was met with the impromptu image of her husband's hands in place of hers, rolling down her stockings, teasing her, his fingers accidentally brushing against her bare legs.

Startled by her sudden thoughts, she all but threw her stockings to the floor and gripped the edge of the mattress to maintain control. Nervous anticipation—this was the name she gave to her lapse in proper thought.

Her brow furrowed and as the cold washed over her body, a soft groan left her mouth. With only her imagination, she sat on her bed—their _marital_ bed—alone, and suppressed a sinful shiver when the night air gently blew against the crotch-slit in her drawers.

Coming to her senses, she quickly rose and closed the doors, resting her head against the glass to give her heart time to calm its nervous beating. She would not be made the fool on her wedding night.

With courage in her steps, she removed her finals layers and donned her loose shift and dressing gown before venturing down the stairs in search of her husband.

The glow from an oil lamp guided her in the otherwise darkened household and indicated that he was still in the parlour. As quietly as she was able, she crept towards the open door, ever mindful of the creaking floorboards, and stood by the threshold looking in.

Sprawled across the settee was Erik, and Christine stared at him in amazement. The small seat was much too short to host the full length of his limbs, and yet there he was, lying awkwardly yet soundly across it as though it was a bed. She did not linger on the thought that he preferred the idea of discomfort to sleeping beside her, however, and she began to walk towards him.

It was only when she chose to kneel beside the settee that she realised that he was in fact awake. His wide eyes stared at her from behind the mask, but he did not move to accommodate her or even to show his awareness of her presence. Yet, she could tell from the quick rise and fall of his chest that he knew she was there.

"Christine," he said at last, a slight trace of nerves in his tone. "Why are you not sleeping?"

Suddenly embarrassed, she cast her eyes to the floor. "Regardless of what you may think, sleeping in a wedding gown is not very comfortable."

"Oh, do forgive me," he stated in a breathy stutter. "I-I did not see any other way without waking you up and I did not wish to disturb your rest." Here, Christine looked up at him and gently laid her hand on his, showing him her forgiveness in the simplest way. Her touch drew his gaze to it, and his lips parted as her fingers began to stroke the back of his hand. Those strokes were slow and thoughtful and he was momentarily reminded of his rosining from earlier that night. Tearing his eyes away from their hands, he looked up at her curiously and struggled to swallow when he saw that her lips, too, were parted. It took all the strength he possessed not to withdraw his hand. "Is there anything you need?"

"Yes," she whispered, emboldened by his response to her touch, for no longer did she doubt his want to be near her. "I want my husband by my side."

His head tilted, reminding Christine of a small dog. "I am by your side, my dear," he said plainly.

"That is not exactly what I meant," she said, giving him an endearing smile before her expression became sober once more. "This cannot be comfortable to sleep on, I imagine," she murmured, her unspoken words stirring something within him, a terrible bout of shameful want that, despite its power, only made him wish to remain where he was.

"No, Christine," he told her, sitting up and threading his fingers together. The brief flicker of hurt across her face as she withdrew her discarded hand made him huff regretfully, but he did not apologise.

"A bride should not sleep alone," she responded without feeling, keeping her gaze lowered.

He smiled gently and lifted her chin up, his thumb sliding back and forth against her jaw before he had the sense to stop himself. "But would you not _rather_ sleep alone?"

Grabbing his hand, she lowered it from her face and stared at him in a fit of slight exasperation. "I want my husband by my side," she repeated before rising to her feet defiantly.

He looked up at her, towering above him, his hands on his knees as he cleared his head of his doubts, choosing to believe her wishes, to believe that she knew her own mind. Shakily, he also stood, a fleeting moment of victory shining on her face before he watched her leave the room, her hand tracing the width of the open door as she passed through.

That door remained open as he himself stepped over the threshold. Nothing else seemed to matter then besides Christine. All he _saw_ was Christine. Her unkempt hair curling down her back, the movement of her dressing gown against her legs, the allure of her face as she turned to glance over her shoulder at him. The look in her dark eyes made him tremble.

She entered her bedchamber first, walking confidently until the sound of the door closing made her spin around. Her breath caught as Erik began to walk towards her, coming to stand close to her, but not close enough.

A hefty silence hung about the room as they stood, unmoving, sharing shy glances in torrid anticipation. Their breath mingled in the night air, their bodies taut as neither dared to move or speak.

Erik's wistful eyes gleamed as he drank in his wife's flushed appearance. His wife. His living wife. After endless nights of pitiful dreaming, here she stood before him.

As his hands reached out to gingerly touch her cheek, his fingers shook, a primal urge to seize her face, to claim her as his own, rousing within him. It was a foreign feeling and Erik fought with all his might to contain it, to understand it, and to not frighten either of them with his lack of sense.

A rosiness bloomed on her cheeks where he touched her and he asked, his sonorous voice low and wanting, "Do you blush for me?"

With a light sigh, her breath landed softly upon his skin, warming it—a mere prelude to what was to come—and she stepped even closer to him, their chests almost touching with every inhale. Her eyes found his at the same time her hands reached for the ties on her dressing gown. Erik frowned, his will weakening before he glanced down and watched as she untied the string at an agonisingly slow pace. The occasional brush of her knuckles on his stomach as she worked was maddening and he could not withhold the gasp that escaped him when she slipped the gown from her shoulders. His body froze. He was so close to her, so _close_ that he felt the material skim against his hand as it tumbled to the floor.

His fingers flexed as his eyes slipped shut, his admiration for this wife growing by the second. How could one be so coy, yet at the same time be inexplicably enthralling to the senses? He had to wonder. Were their thoughts of the same mind? He had reasoned that the idea of their union would disgust her, and yet his little songbird was transforming into a siren right before his eyes—and what a delightful metamorphosis it was.

When she began to lean towards him, however, her presence became overpowering and he tore himself away to the other side of the room, briefly registering her crumpled wedding dress on the ground as he moved to place the bed between them. Frustrated, he looked at her before running a hand though his hair and sitting down on the edge of the mattress. The wall in front of him was bare, plain, boring, and precisely the sedative he needed to relax and process the idea of Christine wanting him in return.

Christine, on the other hand, was perplexed to his abrupt coldness. She had no doubt now that he thought he was trying to save her from being in a full marriage. How absurd, she thought, and yet the knowledge of her effect on him continued to intrigue her.

Before he could speak one word of protest, she bravely crawled onto the bed behind him. Rising on her knees, she leaned into his back, draping herself over him, her hands brazenly splaying across his chest, her lips quivering at his ear.

With only her sheer muslin shift on, he could feel the outline of her womanly form, her round curves pressing against him and oh, how he ached for her!

"I never expected you to be a wife to me in... in that manner," he whispered, tensing under her touch. "Do not feel as though you are obligated to be so."

Involuntarily, she stiffened and, hurt, slid away from him. "Is obligation the only reason you think I would...?"

He sighed, pulling at his cuff in agitation. "What other reason could there be?" he asked, not allowing himself the courage to hope.

"You proclaim that you are a man, with feelings that any other man would have. I accept that. Why, then, can _you_ not accept that a woman could feel the same way?" As she stared at his back, she knew her words would not have fallen so clearly and eloquently from her mouth had his eyes been fixed upon her. "Is it wrong for a woman to want a man?"

He did not react to her question beyond straightening his back for it was as if her words had struck him like the brand of a whip. Staring at the wall, he again gripped his knees and answered, "It is, when I am the man."

"Then I am not like other women."

"No," he agreed with a laugh, "you most certainly are not."

Her hands soon returned to his shoulders, tentatively, as though expecting a reproach of some sort, but was surprised when he did not push her away. When he groaned in his ultimate surrender to her, rolling his shoulders and lolling his head back until it rested in the crook of her neck, she leaned into him, her fingers coaxing his body to slump against her.

Breathing him in, Christine closed her eyes and felt her heart race as he relaxed. Moments before, when she had pressed herself against him, she hadn't thought, for if she had, she would not have had the spirit to act. But now there was no escaping their intimate positioning—his fingers reaching behind him to touch whatever part of her that he could, his breath on her neck, his shoulder blades against her breasts.

A tingle ran through her as she felt him, her hands sliding down his chest before she had the sense to stop them. It was as if she was no longer in control of her body, and an ulterior force was now possessing her, controlling her, urging her limbs to move and her pulse to throb.

She did not even realise she had begun to fiddle with the buttons on his shirt until his hands shot up to grab hers. Quickly removing her hands from him, he sat up, turning slightly to look at her with an expression of fear in his eyes. That look, that startling look, shook Christine to her very core. He looked like a stag in the line of fire.

"Don't. Please, _don't_ ," he uttered, leaning forward on the bed with one of his hands outstretched towards her face. "It is not something I want to worry about, or have _you_ worry about," he told her, his fingertips grazing her cheek. "Not tonight. I beg of you. Not tonight."

She held his hand to her face. "What must I do to have you trust me?"

"Is it not that," he told her, shaking his head. "I... I do not want you to... see me."

A warmth spread throughout her body, branding her skin with a vibrant red of embarrassment. But the more she thought about it, the more the implications behind his request began to show. She had seen his face, had seen the scars he bore on his arms, and now she knew of the torturous procedures he had endured, the instruments that had ensured his loyalty, but had twisted him into something almost irreversible. Did the extent of this run deeper than she had first thought? Was there even a part of his body that had been left untouched by cruelty? She shuddered to think on it.

"If is not a matter of trust," she continued, cradling his hand, "then may I ask something of you? May I... remove your mask?"

Only a moment passed before he unexpectedly nodded, but as he made no move to remove it himself, Christine realised the significance of such a gesture. For the first time, he was allowing _her_ to remove his mask. Her hands shook as she reached for the garment and settled it behind her on the bedside table.

An overwhelming amount of gratitude filled her as she turned back to look at him to see that there was not a single trace of regret or concern on his face. She smiled when her lips shyly sought out his own, thanking him, letting him know how much the gesture meant to her.

He kissed her back timidly, his hands holding her face before carefully threading themselves through her hair, gliding across the back of her head to her neck and travelling lower still. She clutched his upper arms as his lips began to trace her jaw, skimming down her throat, kissing her skin and drawing soft sighs whenever he lingered.

As her fingers found the back of his neck, holding him in place, Erik groaned, the sound feeling wickedly wonderful against her chest. His hands cupped her cheeks as he once again brought his mouth back to hers, kissing her with such reverent intensity that she nearly toppled backwards. Were it not for one of his hands straying from her face and sliding down her neck, she was certain she would have fallen away from him. And that was the very last thing she wanted to do.

His fingers trailed down her chest, over the side of one breast, teasingly, before continuing a path of intrigue down to her waist. She had not realised how much she had craved his touch until he began to gently tug at the bottom of her shift, the rubbing of cotton against her legs making her wish for the material to disappear entirely.

Erik seemed to understand this, timid as he was, and he began to draw the shift up her thighs, the cool air landing on her freshly exposed skin in delirious shivers. She moved slightly to allow him to remove the article completely and once it had joined the rest of her clothing on the floor, Erik turned to look at his bride.

Frozen in her sitting position, Christine resisted the urge to cover herself. With nothing to shield her body from view, she felt quite exposed, and yet a terrible thrill shot through her as she noted their stark difference in attire. Was it sinful to feel emboldened by her bareness? But as she finally brought her gaze up to his face, she frowned, witnessing the anxious tremors in his features.

It was absurd, Erik thought, to feel like a boy again in her presence, rather than the man that he was. Yet, at first, he could not bring himself to look at her properly, not even when she did lower her arms from her chest. If there was a God, He surely must have been testing him, Erik decided.

"E-Erik," she said as he stared at the folded blanket at the bottom of the bed.

Each second that ticked by was torturous and Christine began to feel more and more self-conscious. Finally, he looked back at her, his eyes locked with hers. "I'm sorry," was all he said.

Swallowing her nerves, she made the impulsive decision to reach for his hands, holding them firmly as she asked, "D-Do you truly trust me?"

When he nodded, she bravely guided his hands to her waist, the feeling of skin pressed against skin too exhilarating to comprehend. Erik, too, was lost to the heady sensation, but aside from the heaving of his chest, he did not react to her boldness. For a time, he merely left his hands near her ribcage, feeling her intimately breathe in and out, but even his will was not as strong as he originally thought.

His hands were edging over her body before he knew what was happening. Though she was slender in poise and finger, her torso and legs were not, and they filled his hands with their supple warmth. Her skin was not as smooth as he had always thought it to be, but to him it still felt more intoxicating than any silken fabric he had touched in his lifetime. She was resplendent, she was glorious, and she was not at all what he had imagined. Loathe to admit it, but helpless to resist the thought, Erik had painted her in his mind over time. There she would stand, a coy woman with flirtatious eyes, a Renaissance beauty with billowing hair, draped in the veil of her own innocence. But as his eyes were filled with the sight of her true beauty, her true self, he was overcome.

Empowered by her trust, he lowered his head to her chest as his hands settled on her hips. He was too focused on lavishing kiss upon kiss on her that he did not notice the subtle way in which she shifted under his touch, the way her hips buckled and gyrated against the bed. Her movements were only brought to a frantic stop when the wetness of his mouth found the swell of her bosom.

Her mouth fell open and a soft exhale of breath teased the top of his head. Her hand trembled as it found its way to his hair, threading her fingers deep within his thin strands. Lost to his lover's kiss upon her breast, she closed her eyes, arching as she felt the shy, exploratory brush of his tongue. A gentle whimper left her lips and her head tilted backwards, her chest softly heaving, craving another touch.

Hands, so callous upon another's skin, now shook as they slid up and down over feminine curves and arousing dips, drawing sighs and causing the quickening of breath to reach his ears. And when his mouth left her breast suddenly, the air felt harsh and unpleasant against her damp skin. Where was that warmth— _his_ warmth—that she needed from him now? Coldness began to flood her body until she managed to roll her head forward and cast a glance down at the man before her. His fingers had stilled at her hips and yet he did not register her eyes on him. No, his own gaze was directed at something much lower, darker, and hidden between her quivering legs. Instinctively, she flushed and brought her knees together until his hands slid down her thighs to rest lightly on those knees.

Erik looked at her then, his eyes hazy and his stare impenetrable, and Christine found herself palpitating under the weight of it. Now was her chance, she thought, to push him away, to deny him, and by God would he have allowed her such a power over him. With one word, she could silence him, force him from the room with a cruel hand. But she was not a cruel mistress, nor was she one of the many who had mistreated him—she was not his mother—and she would not deny him her love now.

Biting her lip anxiously, Christine drew him closer with one hand, kissing him slowly as she repositioned her legs, one on either side of him. At the first brush of her bare skin against his side, Erik froze, pulling back slightly only to look down at their intimate arrangement with a mixture of fear and intrigue. Holding the woman he loved in all her vulnerability, having her limbs entwined with his, seeing her craving eyes, her swollen lips—He had never felt more like a man than he did at that moment. It terrified him more than anything else ever had. But it was when she began to lean backwards, deftly pulling him with her, that he finally succumbed to her allure.

Hovering over her, still, he awaited Christine's next move with trembling anticipation. But she did not move, merely stared up at him with an expression that swiftly clouded his judgements and his doubts.

When his hands began to map her body, her feet pressed into the mattress and her hips rose off the bed as a subtle yet noticeable throbbing began to stir within her. She knew nothing of how to soothe this gentle burn, but knew that something had be done about it, and so it was instinct that drove her to push forward once again, to none too gracefully surge her hips up to meet Erik's.

Strangled gasps left their mouths at the same time, hot pants that filled the otherwise chilled air. Breathing heavily, they both shifted to stare at one another, curiosity and fear of the unknown alight in their eyes. A want to dive off the precipice they were both teetering on the edge of was an all-consuming thought that sent their hearts thrumming. And each beat, each throbbing pulse, reverberated off their bodies like plucked strings.

Fingertips half-heartedly ran down her flushed cheek as he looked down at her intently, his mouth open and his brow furrowed in an expression of intangible emotion. " _Please_ ," he rasped, his voice shaking with an unbridled desire that shocked Christine's sensibilities.

She, too, frowned until she saw his gaze sweep across her bare body and, demurely, she nodded her head, giving him the permission he sought. His hands immediately pressed against her skin, more firmly this time, his coldness doing wonders to the flames shooting through her blood.

"May I touch you?" he asked timidly, neither his hands, nor his gaze leaving her body.

"But... y-you are," she whispered, lifting her head from the pillow.

"N-No," he said, looking up at her suddenly. "May I... _touch_ you?"

Dazedly, she watched as his hands skimmed across her sides and over the edge of her breasts before travelling down to pause just below her hips. A terrifying thrill ran through her as his fingers traced the area around the part of her that had never been touched. " _Oh_ ," she whispered, the word barely distinguishable within the harsh breath she exhaled, but she nodded in her delirium all the same.

"I have never touched a woman before," he murmured into her neck.

Like the handling of an antique violin, he delicately stroked her well-crafted curves before running his lips down her neck and body, gently plucking strings that echoed off her in a series of delirious cries. He was struck by her desirous song, his hands stilling against her body, before trailing lower to stroke her most sensitive area. He had never known her to produce such unrestrained notes as she did then. Her cries were broken and hoarse, something akin to a slow whine, and Erik thought them the most beautiful sounds he had ever heard.

He _felt_ her, her heart, her pulse that shook her body with every beat, and that was when he understood. The flaws in her otherwise perfect voice rang out with one final cry and teased his ears with such clarity that tears sprung to his eyes. She was not perfect, far from it, she was laden with imperfections, both seen and unseen... just as he was.

He watched as her chest heaved and her eyes opened and closed lazily, as though they could not decide whether she was more awake or tired—her breaths came sharp and fast, a startling aftermath of her first release.

Erik was nearly frozen when she blindly groped for his shoulder, bringing his face close to hers as her fingers weakly held him there.

Her lips then flirted with his, kissing them once before tracing the shape of them with her own. His skin tingled with the sensation of her sweet breath and he whimpered as she whispered huskily, "Erik... _Erik_ , min älskling..." He looked up at her, his ears yearning to hear his name spoken that way again. "Min kärlek... My husband." And at this, he shuddered, bowing his head once more to her pale neck.

All at once, he could feel every outline, every curve of her body pressed against him, calling to him, and he gasped into her hair, feeling almost suffocated. "Christine," he gasped, tensing as he held his weight and his damp fingers away from her. "I... I can't... I _can't_..."

Expecting vicious words or a backlash of some kind, he was stunned to feel her hand against the back of his head, softly stroking his hair in a repetitive, soothing motion. He felt her cheek rest against him as she nodded, murmuring, "It's all right, it's all right."

Immediately, guilt and an overwhelming urge to hit himself came over him. How could he have ever thought ill of his beloved? But her arms around his shuddering figure brought such security to him that he began to relax into her hold. His weight slumped, half on top of her, half beside her, and he nestled into her body, his head pillowed against her breast, their hands entwining as their eyes shut and they succumbed to their own drowsiness.

Erik had never allowed himself the luxury of falling asleep in such a vulnerable position, but as he recalled Christine's words from some weeks ago, he knew now that they were true: when he was with her, he was truly safe.

"I love you," was the soft whisper that reached his ears before he fell into a deep sleep.

o0o

It was still dark when they were each stirred from their slumber, but were too content in their state of rest to move to lay side by side. Enraptured when he felt her awaken, he propped himself up on one elbow and looked into her vibrant eyes. She stroked his mangled cheeks before craning her neck up to kiss him. Her lips were slow, attentive, but ardent in their languid touches, and it was not long before she became aware of her bareness beneath him. Erik soon pulled away, following her eyes down to her body before gradually lowering his lips to the skin between her breasts. The trapped heat between their bodies had covered the little valley in a thin layer of sweat and he kissed it diligently, savouring the way she arched towards him, her hands grasping at his shoulders.

When he lifted his head, they held each other's gaze, eyes dark, mouths parted, and allowed a strange merging of pleasure and discomfort to carry them through the night.


	37. Chapter 37

A pleasant warmth on her body roused Christine from her sleep the next morning and she fluttered her eyelids open to the sight of white linen. She was sprawled out on her front, her arms hidden beneath the sun-kissed pillow. Beneath the sheets, her legs shifted and a numb ache greeted her.

Closing her eyes again, she remembered the night before and all that she and Erik had shared together—flashes of pleasure and intimacy based on a plethora of trust, whispered endearments, the final consummation of their love. She hid her face in her pillow as she thought on this. A blushing bride was she, but a happy one, too, and she did not regret a moment of their union.

Biting her lip, she slid her hand out from underneath its warm covering and reached across the bed towards Erik. When all she felt was a cold sheet, however, she stared at the empty space beside her longingly as his mask on the bedside table stared back at her.

Suddenly, something drew her from her loneliness and confusion, a branding upon her skin like the prickling of ice or the scalding of hot water. Her shoulders tensed before she contorted pleasantly at the feeling of fingertips slowly running down her spine, stopping only when they reached the blanket, which hung loosely around her hips.

Boldly, she turned to lay on her back and stared passively up into the bare face of her husband, who was surrounded by the glow of the morning sun. A shy smile reached her mouth as her eyes roamed his body, from his untucked and crinkled shirt to his startled expression. She could not remember a time when he looked so comfortable in his dishevelment, and she secretly adored it.

Erik's fingers hovered over her stomach, frozen in place as his gaze swept over her uncovered form. The sheets were twisted provocatively over her thighs and her hands were gracefully poised about her bosom like Botticelli's Venus.

He hesitated before again pressing his fingertips to her skin, this time at the hollow of her throat before trailing downwards, in between her breasts, over her stomach and around the curve of her slightly Rubensesque hip. If his wife had existed centuries before now, he had no doubt that she would have been immortalised by the old masters.

His tongue darted out to wet his dry lips as he traced the skin just above the sheet, from one hip to the other, eyes drawn to the way her body arched and stretched like a feline. He never even dared to dream about touching her with such familiarity before—and in broad daylight, too!

Removing his hand, he took a timid step away from her as he watched her smile once more and pat the covers beside her. Confusion swept over his face, his fingers flexing nervously behind his back. Was she inviting him to sit near her?

Having almost read his thoughts, Christine extended one drooping hand towards him before it dropped back onto the mattress in defeat. Her gentle gaze flickered to the empty spot beside her before glancing up at him again, and Erik gave a stiff nod before lowering himself to the bed.

Several moments of uncomfortable silence passed and while Erik thought this was to be expected, Christine had no idea as to why her husband would not speak. Gathering the sheets together, she then brought them up to cover her chest before she sat up, involuntarily bringing them closer together. The slight wince across her mouth as she shifted did not go unnoticed by Erik.

Possessed by a flood of embarrassment, Christine stared at the floor, only to have her cheeks burn even more as she saw her discarded clothing strewn about the room. Turning back to Erik, she attempted to speak, though her words ended up sounding meek and muffled. "Good morning," she whispered.

His gaze snapped to hers in quite a studious manner before flicking away. "H-How are you feeling?"

Her face fell a little at his reserved manner, and she found herself looking down into her lap. "I am well," she told him.

Her answer, however, proved not to be satisfactory for he grimaced and narrowed his eyes, analysing every part of her face as he spoke. "You are lying," he insisted, forcibly yet quietly. "I witnessed your discomfort as you sat up."

The coldness in his tone sent an unpleasant chill down her body as she felt slight embarrassment creep up her neck to stain her cheeks. "I remember the girls at the Opéra talking about _this_ _..._ and they said that sometimes it is to be expected... the… the first time."

Unfortunately, her girlish shyness at that moment was mistaken for a knowing fear of what would happen and Erik was aghast at her explanation. Immediately, he reached towards her, a thousand apologies on the tip of his tongue, but before he could seek her hands out, he froze and withdrew into himself. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten her further with his touch. "Forgive me, Christine. Can you ever forgive your Erik? He was very selfish and he thought... he thought... But you knew! You knew you would get hurt! How could you ever allow me to do such a thing if you knew what was to come of it? Oh, but I would never do something like... _that._ I would never intentionally violate you! You must believe me, Christine, I am not one of those—"

"I know, I know," she cooed, reaching for him to provide the reassurance he was unable to give her. "I did not say that it was expected of _you_. I merely said that it was to be... _expected_. Do you understand?" When he did nothing but shake his head and look down at their hands, she sighed, her heart pounding in her ears as she attempted to broach this sensitive subject. Once again, she felt more like she was speaking to a child who did not know any better rather than a man; a husband. _Her_ husband.

"I do not pretend to know the details of… such things," she began steadily, "but I have heard that it is natural for a woman t-to feel slight discomfort the fi-first time she is… intimate with a man."

To her surprise and horror, she heard him ask, "Why?"

His question had no trace of malice in it, just an unabating sense of curiosity, yet it still managed to paint her body a bright crimson. Fumbling around a reply, she opened and closed her mouth before shaking her head. "I do not know," she admitted in a single exhale, closing her eyes as she wished this moment to be over.

"Oh," he murmured, noting her embarrassment and deciding not to question her further on the subject. Looking down at their loosely entwined hands, he could not help but recall the way their limbs had also fitted together in a similar fashion.

Sighing, he withdrew his hand and cursed himself. His irrational thoughts had yet again ruined what could have been a perfectly peaceful moment.

Words had indeed failed them that morning. There was nothing to be done about it now except for them to try to move on. Shuffling forward, Christine offered her shaken husband a small smile before she rested her head against his shoulder. Her palm encased his upper arm, rubbing it soothingly as he shuddered and leaned his face into her knotted hair. Rough fingers threaded themselves through her curls, petting them fiercely as a child would a pet, and though Christine frowned at his urgency, she allowed him this comfort.

When he pulled back, his eyes were alight with something that made her smile again. "You do not hate your Erik?" he asked hopefully.

"I do not hate my _husband_ ," she murmured, bringing his face closer to her so she could press her lips to his forehead. She only drew back when she felt him shake under the strength of his emotions. His eyes glassed over with tears and Christine released a breathy sigh. "Do you not like it when I call you that?" she asked, suddenly worried that she was responsible for inducing such a state, that her innocent endearment had been the cause of his doubts and hesitations.

With a laugh, he shook his head and exclaimed, "It is the most wonderful name I have ever been called!"

"Then I shall be certain to call you it every day," she vowed, to which she received a kiss on each of her hands.

"Oh!" Erik then said with a start, dropping her hands as he spoke. "Breakfast! You have not had anything to eat yet! You stay put, Christine, my wife, and I shall fetch you anything you want."

His sudden giddiness managed to raise her eyebrows, but she welcomed this change in him as whole-heartedly as she welcomed the rise of the morning sun. "That sounds lovely, Erik," she told him. "Whatever you think is best." And with a kiss to his cheek, he journeyed downstairs to the kitchen.

Deciding to lay in bed for a while longer, Christine stretched and rested her head against the cushioning pillow. Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she half smiled at the prospect of waking up each morning to an ecstatic husband. It was most assuredly something she could get used to.

Her eyes opened and closed in a sort of restful tiredness before she sat up and peered around her in the hopes of spying her dressing gown. Her face warmed as she remembered its resting place in the middle of the floor and, with mild discomfort, she rose from the bed and slipped the gown on.

Running her fingers through her hair proved to be an irritating task to complete smoothly so she sat at her vanity and picked up her brush.

Combing her hair brought back the memory of Mme Giry and the soft song that she had hummed as her hands swept through her curls the day before. Christine's own rhythmic brushing slowed to a languid pace as she began to hum the same piece, a light little song they often sang down at the bistros.

As she placed the brush back down, she began to study her reflection, never ceasing her humming. Tilting her head to the side, her eyes trailed the length of her body, appraising the curves that had only recently been brought to her full attention. She was no great beauty—very much plain next to the elegant stature of women, whose breeding spoke volumes in the tighter circles of society. Her true beauty shone in the eyes of the man who loved her and she was just starting to see herself as just that.

And she felt beautiful. She felt _alive._

The night before, she had become bewildered by this heightened dizziness, this almost euphoric state. She had never known such intense and unbridled passion. Had she truly, with her novice touch, incited such an intensity in him that exceeded her own? She caught herself blushing once more at this and she raised a limp hand to her cheek, feeling the heavy pulse, the warmth through her skin.

Shamelessly, she allowed those memories to pour into her mind again and again, reawakening her senses. She recalled every touch, the way he looked at her, and she suddenly did not recognise her own reflection. This _woman_ staring back at her was someone else entirely. _She_ was beautiful, every part of her—the full lips that parted as she remembered how _another's_ had caressed her skin; the demure eyes, reserved yet wild; the tremors across her chest. Christine embraced this woman, trailing her hands over her face and through her hair, becoming one with her.

At that moment, Erik began to ascend the stairs, a very full tray in hand and his gaze lowered to his feet. "I know you said that you did not mind what you ate, but I could not decide for you so I brought an array of foods... Oh, _Christine._ " He sighed somewhat dreamily as he entered the room and heard her voice continue its beautiful refrain. Putting the tray down swiftly, he walked towards her. "How delightful it is to hear you," he breathed in wonderment as he fell onto the seat beside her, burrowing his face into her neck so that he might be closer to the source and be able to _feel_ her voice.

"Mmm," she mumbled with a smile to her lips, leaning into him as his hands came to rest gingerly upon her waist. "I have decided something."

"What have you decided?" he whispered against her skin.

"I am going to start singing again, on the stage." It was something she had been thinking about ever since they had argued over it. She did not entertain the hope, however, that any Parisian theatre would welcome her back so soon, but that would not stop her from seeking employment elsewhere. "Once we decide where we will travel to, I want to audition. I do not care if we are on the other side of the world, but I must sing again."

Erik pulled back to look at her, dropping his hands to his knees. "It would seem the stage is still calling you," he mused softly, sweeping some of her hair back over her shoulder, "and you were born to answer that call."

A wide grin spread across her face as she resisted the urge to throw her arms around him—a gesture that would have knocked the two of them to the floor. "You will help me, Erik, won't you? We have both neglected my voice, but with work, I believe we may be able to retrain it."

"There is no question about it, you shall sing as well as you did before, better even!" he exclaimed as his fingertips came to rest very lightly against her throat. Every light stroke he made echoed the flutter of her heart. "Your instrument is pure, Christine, like your soul. It is a beautiful thing. It will serve you well if you but let it."

Her smile fell into one filled with courage as she reached up to hold his hand. Respectfully, she bowed her head and silently scolded herself for feeling overcome. "Thank you," she said with all her being, bending down to kiss his knuckles. " _Thank you_."

Leaning her temple against their hands, she closed her eyes and sighed. Erik, who had nearly been at a loss for words at her reverence, managed to surge enough life back into his body for him to squeeze her hand. His dear, dear girl. Here she was, fawning over him when it should be he doing just that at her feet.

Like a guiding light, she had paved the path of acceptance for him and he had finally stepped onto it.

"I finally saw myself through your eyes last night," he told her fervently, tilting her head up so that he could hold her face and set his gaze upon her dark eyes, the wrinkle between her furrowed brow, and her lips, so tempting as they formed the words that brought him to his knees.

"I am seeing myself through your eyes now."

o0o

Around midday, a great noise rumbled through the sky and soon the windows were being pelted by fierce drops of rain. To some, it was a nuisance, but to Erik and Christine it was music, sweet and pure. The Earth's music—continuous notes in natural phrases that made sense only to the newly wedded couple and appealed to their ability to see and hear beauty in the most mundane creations. And what beauty it was they shared!

Music—the dripping of water, a happy sigh, a melodious hum—filled the household that day and wrapped the two of them in a cocoon of marital bliss. _Bliss_... Such a word, Erik mused as he watched his wife from the kitchen table as she prepared something for a simple dinner. She ducked and weaved and moved about the counter like a dancer, making him feel strangely at home in this scene of domesticity.

When he asked her what she was making, her reply caused him to fall silent as he struggled to comprehend the name. "What?" was all he could ask.

"It is a Swedish dish, Erik," she chuckled over her shoulder. "Have you not heard of it before?" He murmured a quiet 'no' and Christine suddenly spun around, the wild look in her eyes making him shift uncomfortably in his seat. "You did not understand what I said, then."

"Yes, yes, I did not understand what you said. I regrettably do not understand your mother tongue and I am terribly sorry for the inconvenience I might have caused." His toned was clipped and one hand had fisted at his trouser leg, twisting the material at the knee, and Christine realised her mistake.

Flying to his side, she gathered his rigid body into her arms, his head laying against her bosom as she soothingly ran her fingers through his hair. "Do not misunderstand me," she told him as she felt him slowly ease into her touch. "I was merely wishing to clarify that you do not know any Swedish."

"Yes, and I don't," came his quick and curt response. "I thought I had already made that perfectly clear."

"Yes," she droned wearily before smiling down at him. "But would you like to?"

His head shifted against her bodice, almost as if he was straining to hear her, before he tilted his chin up to gaze upon her in wonderment and confusion. "You... You would teach me?"

"Only if you want me to," she said in earnest, sighing as his hands came up to rest upon her waist, drawing her close to him. Her arms slid around his shoulders at the same time her lips pressed against his temple. The shudder that ran through his body did not escape her notice.

"I do, my wife, I do," he cried into her, his smile barely contained at the thought of learning her language. It was such an intimate sentiment, to speak to one another in the other's language, and he felt as though he would burst from love.

"Very well," she said, pulling away from him, much to his disappointment. "Your lessons shall start after dinner."

True to her word, after finishing off the meal, Christine cleared the table and sat down to start the lesson, but was unprepared for what she was about to experience.

She had never seen Erik so nervous before, sitting before her as rigidly and politely as a budding young student, so eager to learn and to not displease. His anxious behaviour translated terribly into his pronunciations, which confused Christine to no end as she did not think Swedish to be a particularly difficult language. It was much more rounded than French, and yet Erik continued to fumble his way through the phrases she told him to repeat. It was endearing, in a way, she supposed. Taking on the role of teacher was not as easy as she thought it would be, but she smiled and patiently repeated vowels and accented syllables until he was able to form the words correctly. She thought his progress was quite satisfactory.

Erik, however, had never felt so foolish. His need to be perfect for her caused his blunders to thrive under his distracted mind and it was only when she laid her hand on his and gently suggested that they stop for the evening did he feel a sense of relief flow through him. He had not made so many mistakes in language since his youth.

"I apologise for that monstrosity of a lesson," he told her, leaning against the door frame as he watched her pour tea for them both. A calming change, and he welcomed it readily. "I have failed you as a student."

"You have not failed me, Erik," she laughed, arranging a tray and carrying it through to the parlour. She did not need to look over her shoulder to know he was trailing after her solemnly. "Not everyone can be expected to grasp a language so quickly. These things take time. I did not learn French overnight, after all."

"How gratifying to know. Thank you," he replied, his dry tone earning him a stern look from Christine. It did not nearly have the effect that if should have, however, for he found himself smiling, nearly beside himself with joy over her attempts to continue her teaching demeanour.

Settling himself down on the settee, he continued to smirk at her scowl, even as she handed him his cup with as much mock indignity as she could muster without causing a spillage. Mixing in her sugar, she sat down on the other side of the settee, daintily sipping on the beverage as she stared at the ground. They drank in silence until a strange choking noise drew her attention away from the flooring. Startled, she placed her cup down and turned towards Erik in fear that he may have fallen ill to one of his episodes, but she was simply met with the sight of him barely able to contain his laughter.

Slightly perturbed at her assumption, she huffed, which only stoked the fire of his amusement. "And _what_ ," she started, affronted at his uncharacteristic lack of self-control, "precisely is so amusing?"

"You, my love," he managed through a grin, placing his own cup down and gathering his hands to his chest. "You make me laugh!" he exclaimed merrily, shrugging in his blissful state. "Oh, you do not know how happy you make me!"

Despite her attempts at maintaining her stoic manner, she found herself smiling with him. Leaning forward quickly, she captured his mouth, claiming their first true kiss on their first day as a wedded couple. Erik's hand flew out in shock before timidly reaching for her face, cupping her cheeks and pulling her closer.

When they parted, she kissed his cheek and squeezed his hands. "If that is the case, then I can only hope I can continue to do so for the rest of my days."

After her display of loving behaviour, Erik had insisted on playing for her. Racing to his violin case, he took great care in preparing the instrument—just as he had the night before—and Christine was determined this time not to fall asleep.

Through the evening, he serenaded her with melodies old and new, weaving the protective phrases of his love around her until she felt at one with him. Her smile was his muse as his fingers experimentally followed his mind, improvising his vision, professing his affection and his long-forgotten fears in a single piece. And Christine _heard_ him, she heard his call and what he was telling her through music. His heart felt like it would burst when she coyly pulled him to her on the settee, the violin left resting on the floor, forgotten, and their arms came about each other.

They spoke to one another even as darkness fell around them, whispering and smiling and laughing—just as newly-weds should be—until Christine sighed, contently but tiredly.

"I think I will retire now," she told him, draping her arms around his shoulders and kissing the top of his head. He breathed her in and she smiled at how relaxed her touch now made him. "I shall leave you to your thoughts."

A hand quickly shot out to stop her as she began to walk away and she paused in her step, turning back to look at him. Although he remained seated with his gaze directed at the floor, his fingers smoothly wrapped around her wrist, sliding up and down her arm before gently dragging her back towards him. He leaned forward and her heart thudded when her torso pressed against his upper arm and shoulder.

"Don't," he mumbled, and it was that single word wrapped within that intoxicating tone that made her lips part and her stomach clench in anticipation. Tilting his head so that he could see her, his fingers lazily moved about her hand, teasing hers before threading themselves together.

"What is wrong?" she managed to ask, though her pulse had increased to a maddening pace under his simple ministrations.

"Nothing whatsoever," he exclaimed happily, guiding her to stand between his legs, his free hand pressing against the small of her back until there was not a breath of space left between them. "For once, nothing is wrong, my love. Is it not joyous?"

"Yes."

Small, ragged gasps left Christine's mouth as he embraced her tightly and a familiar stirring began within her when his hand began to slide across her waist and hip. Even through layers of thick clothing, the memory of his caresses from the night before burned in her mind, setting her skin on fire with heady desire. At the thought of their union, her legs began to buckle and before her sensibilities could put a stop to it, she had raised one leg so that her knee might rest on the space beside Erik's thigh.

This move, however, proved to be a mistake because it only succeeded in creating a more intimate scene. Trapped in each other's arms, the couple released slow moans as their bodies grew taut, refusing to adjust to their new positioning, but loathe to move away.

The weight of her dress over his leg was suffocating, but he would never dare remove it, not when he found such strange pleasure in the sensation. His fingers crept down her side and, before either of them knew what he was doing, he had pulled her other leg up to rest beside his. Christine gasped and clung to him, even as the hand at her back supported her. Trembling, she looked down at him and tried not to draw attention to her brazen positioning.

She did not have the time to ponder this, however, for Erik's mouth was soon at her neck, his lips exploring the throbbing skin and his voice low in her ear. He began to weave a song in her mind, a rich, deep melody that coursed through her veins and made her heart sing for him. As the wordless notation fell on her throat in hot breaths, she tilted her head back in surrender, mouth falling open and a moan melding with his song.

Closing her eyes, she felt the vibration of the melody through his lips on her skin. Pulling back, much to Erik's dismay and secretly her own, she met his dark eyes and asked breathlessly, "Why are you so eager to learn Swedish?" Her hands unconsciously tightened their grip on his shirt as she waited on his answer. "Tell me," she urged quietly. "Please."

Hands sprung to life and pulled her suddenly against him, his lips once more teasing her neck. "It… It is so I can know the things you whisper to me in our moments of intimacy," he confessed, thankful that his face was hidden in her hair. "Last night... What did you say to me? What… What was it you said? _Mi? Min_... _a_ _skling_?"

Before she could stop herself, a desperate groan rippled through her at the sound of those words—her own words that she had only murmured in a state of delirious rapture—and she pressed down on his shoulders in torment. His whispered endearment in her native tongue had been the final straw and it had pushed her over the edge. Sliding her hands up to his face, she bent down and kissed him more roughly than she thought herself capable.

" _Min_ _älskling_ ," she corrected heatedly between kisses, "It means, 'my darling'."

Sighing, he embraced her and buried his face into her hair again, vowing to commit these endearments to memory so that he might whisper them to her one day.

"Christine... May I ask you something?"

"Mmm," she murmured agreeably, resting her forehead against his. "What is it?"

"How... would one say, 'I love you' in Swedish?"

His question had been cautious, almost as if he had been afraid to ask, and in that moment, she knew his reason for wanting to learn the language was rooted much deeper. Studying his nervous features, she spoke in slow fragmented syllables, making certain that he would be able to listen and repeat. "Jag älskar dig."

"Jag älskar dig, Christine," he replied shakily, winding his arms around her waist. "Until the end of my days."

o0o

Erik truly believed that he was the luckiest man in existence.

Later that night, he held his wife as she slept, savouring the light caress of her breath that teased his neck every few seconds. The curtains were still drawn and not even the moon could intrude on their moment of marital heaven. And it was indeed heaven for Erik. Waking up each morning next to Christine was surely a gift from God, a sign that he was finally on the path to redemption. The day had come and gone when he had claimed a wife, but the day when he would reclaim his soul was still to come. Anxiously, he would await that reunion with every fibre of his body, but in the meantime, he would be content to while away the hours by the side of the woman he loved.

As she nuzzled into his shirt, he held her tighter, loathe to fully awaken from his sleepy reverie. When he felt her shift, however, he looked down and saw that her eyes were already open.

"I think I shall get used to this," she murmured, her voice low and husky from her dreams. He frowned at her statement, but she merely smiled and laid her head more firmly on the pillow. "Waking up to see your face, I mean."

Erik blanched at this and removed his hand from her back so that it could flutter around his head nervously. Despite her words, he almost felt compelled to shield her from his features. "Christine, I do not know whether to laugh at you or kiss you!" he exclaimed as he dropped his hand to the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

"I hope it is not the former," she said, propping herself up on her elbow to look down at him, "or I shall be very cross indeed."

Erik turned his head to stare at her in a haze of bemusement. Her hair brushed against his face and neck as she leaned over him and before he could stop himself, he raised his hand so that his fingers might touch those curls. "You are a wonder," he said, sweeping his gaze across her face before landing on the faint bloom on her cheeks, visible even in the darkness.

"You have told me that before," she reminded him, almost shyly.

"And you shall probably hear it a hundred more times before I am through."

Lowering herself onto the pillow again to hide her growing blush, she leaned her cheek into his shoulder and laid an arm across his chest. "What time do you suppose it is?"

"Not yet dawn," he replied, allowing his eyes to drift shut.

"Is it Sunday," she quietly announced.

Beside her, Erik noticeably shifted. "You will no doubt wish to attend mass, then."

While he was overjoyed that Christine had not lost sight in her faith, he was still adamant that she practice her religion alone. He would not condemn nor mock her belief, but neither would he participate in it. Sighing, he laid his hand over her wrist and absent-mindedly began to tap his fingers against the material of her nightgown.

"Yes," he heard her reply at last, "but I also wished to ask a favour of you."

"Anything you ask of me I shall give you," he exclaimed whole-heartedly.

"I am pleased to hear that," she said, smiling sleepily to herself, "for I wanted to ask you if you would like to walk with me after I return from mass. A long stroll sounds lovely, don't you agree?"

But no sooner than she said this had tears sprang to his eyes. The fingers on her wrist quickly stilled and in one rough pull, he enveloped her in a fierce embrace. Christine made a little noise of surprise, but welcomed his arms as she wove her own around his neck, hoping her lips against his temple would help to calm his sobs.

"Oh, Christine," he cried against her. "That is all I have ever wanted. I dreamt of taking my wife out on Sundays, but never did I think it would come true!"

"And now it will, Erik, it will," she soothed in his ear, stroking the back of his head.

"You would not be ashamed of me, walking around in the middle of the day with a corpse on your arm?"

She quickly chastised him for such a remark before shaking her head. "Why ever should I be ashamed? I will not have a corpse by my side, after all. It shall be a man, my _husband_. Monsieur Daaé."

His cries momentarily ceased as he heard his wedded name spoken aloud. Christine, too, paused in her ministrations to think on how wonderful it sounded to her ears. Tightening his arms around her, he tilted his head so that his lips met hers.

"Thank you," he whispered once they had parted, closing his eyes as she rested her forehead against his.

"For what?" she asked.

"For this, for you, for everything you have done for me," he told her fervently.

She chuckled at this and Erik sighed at the delightful way the sound reverberated through both of their bodies. "I shall take this as your acceptance for our walk then."


	38. Chapter 38

Although Christine knew her attempts at persuading Erik to join her at mass were fruitless, it did not stop her from trying. Her only consolation, however, was that he was set on joining her after the sermon. A blasphemous smile kept finding its way to her mouth later that morning as she listened to pieces of quoted scripture and a choir of pure tone fill the church. Her countenance reflected that of an excited schoolgirl rather than a servant of God and she hurriedly told herself to repent for her thoughts later. Now, however, she was overwhelmed by the urge to glance towards the doors, knowing that her husband waited for her in a carriage just beyond.

When the sermon ended, she slowly rose from her seat but did not even stop to greet Father Augustin on her way out. Of course, she felt guilty over this, but her guilt did not stay with her for long. As soon as she spotted the carriage, she made her way over to it, her feet carrying her as swiftly and as elegantly as though the wind itself was pushing her forward.

"That was a particularly long sermon," Erik muttered once she sat herself down beside him. Looking over at him, she saw that the rattle of the carriage had done nothing to remove his stiff upper lip.

"Oh? I did not notice," she replied, hiding her smile. Sliding her gloves onto her hands, she then sighed happily and glanced out of the window at the throng of people. Many a couple walked arm in arm down the streets, and soon they would walk among them. Her gaze remained focused on the streets as her fingers blindly sought out his, but when she was met with nothing but an empty space, she frowned and shifted in her seat.

His clasped hands lay in his lap and his eyes were pointedly turned down to the compartment under their feet. Calming breaths moved his shoulders up and down, but Christine knew that he was not as collected as he appeared to be. Resting her hand on his knee, she drew his attention to her.

"I do not think this was a good idea," he admitted, peering down at the fingers that were now stroking him soothingly. For the first time since he had stepped out into the light that day, he reached up to skittishly touch his recently fashioned mask. "Does it... Does it look normal?" he asked, his jaw clenched.

A man with a child's voice—it was how she would have described him in that moment and, with a slight grimace, she leaned back and surveyed his face with a serious eye. The disguise he wore now, right down to the spectacles resting on his prosthetic nose, reminded her greatly of how he had looked the day of Mamma Valérius' funeral. A sudden wave of sadness claimed her as she thought of her guardian, but she was quick to swallow the feeling as she concentrated on her tense husband.

"You will not frighten anyone," she concluded dryly, removing her hand to her own lap.

Erik pursed his lips and turned his head away from her, staring out of the window with feigned interest. "Why is it then, that you appear so unnerved?"

Christine sighed and looked out of her own window, briefly lamenting the happy hours they had shared the previous evening. She had indeed been foolish to think that all his insecurities would disappear in the first day or two of their marriage. A miracle had not been what she was expecting, but she supposed she had quickly become attached to the newfound carefree attitude that he had shown her.

"If I am unnerved it is because I do not like looking at that disguise," she explained, her eyes catching the movement of two children—siblings, she would have guessed—squabbling with one another as their governess attempted to calm them. By the brief glance she had taken of the woman's flustered face, her work was too much of a strain, but Christine's lip curled up at this, wondering if one day she would be in a similar position. Coming back to the present and into the confinement of the carriage, Christine once again grew solemn.

"How could the disguise possibly be the thing to unnerve you?" Erik asked, grasping his knees. "You implied its effectiveness, so I fail to see what is so horrible about it!"

Suppressing a groan at his stubbornness, she shuffled over to him and rested her head against his shoulder, recalling how she had done so that morning, when all had been right with the world. "When I look at you now," she began, looking up at him, "I do not see the face of my husband."

His attention piqued, Erik stared down at his lap before meeting her eyes. "What do you see?"

"A stranger," she mused, sitting up to study him once more. "Another face in the crowd."

To her surprise, and slight dismay, her answer proved pleasing to him and his eyes lit up with renewed hope. Huffing, she rested her head against the back of the seat and attempted to see things from his point of view. For his entire life, he had been standing at the gates of the world of the living, looking through the bars as a prisoner of his own body. Now, his disguise would act as the key to finally allow him to pass from one world into the other—allowing him to step from the darkness and into the light.

"Forgive me for not understanding," she whispered over the drone of city life as they neared the Tuileries Garden. Silence prevailed until the carriage rolled to a stop and neither man nor wife made to open a door.

Gritting his teeth, Erik breathed deeply and gripped the material of his trousers in aggravation. His head shook as he dared to glance at her, his eyes relenting as he took in her neutral features. "You are not at fault, Christine," he insisted, wishing to clutch at her hand but remained where he was. "You most certainly are not at fault. I cannot expect you to become in tune with all my..." Here, he cleared his throat, "idiosyncrasies."

Christine, too, breathed deeply and hummed her surrender. "So that is what you call them," she muttered. Without another word, she wrenched open the door and stepped outside.

The refreshing breeze felt like a Godsend now that she was out of that stuffy carriage. Sighing, she allowed the cold to nip at her cheeks as she paused to check her gloves. A moment later, Erik appeared next to her. Slowly, she looked up at him, noting immediately the stiff manner about him; his taut back, his twitching fingers and the way he would move his head about like a frightened animal. Her heart ached at the sight and, wanting nothing more than to reassure him, she confidently placed her hand in the crook of his arm and smiled warmly.

"Shall we walk, husband?"

His pace matched that of any other couple who happened to be strolling through the Garden, but Christine could still feel the tension he held below her hand. Whenever someone would glance at them uninterestedly, her hand would press more firmly against his arm and he, in turn, pressed her hand more closely to him.

"It would appear you are a success," she commented, hoping to lighten the mood.

"Yes," he replied, his expression—or, rather, what she could see of it—vacant.

Unconsciously, she began to lean nearer to him as they walked. "What can I say to distract you, I wonder?" she said to herself before her instinct to prattle on about inconsequential subjects took over. "We shall have to sell Mamma's house," she began, "and I had hoped that we would finalise our arrangements before we leave. The Valérius' solicitor has already urged the selling of the property and has contacted me with several potential buyers." She paused. "Due to the recent... unpleasantness we could face by remaining in Paris, would it not be better to make those plans now rather than later?"

A frown appeared on Erik's face, though the mask did well to hide it. Of course, their imminent departure had always been present in his mind, but he did not wish to dwell on such unsavoury thoughts, not while they enjoyed their first days as man and wife. He knew, however, that they could not remain above the clouds for the rest of their lives. As much as he despised reality, he had to learn to plant his feet to the ground again.

Looking down at his wife, he saw only the epitome of a woman changed. Her grief had hardened her and she now seemed to be able to tackle life's little indiscretions with more steely determination and with more of a level head than before. She was accepting of the problems she was faced with but she was resolute that she would not allow them to defeat her; to crush her as they once feared they might. Her strength shone in every decision she made and though Erik loved her desperately for it, he had yet to conclude whether this would be good for her or not.

A stranger caught his eye at that moment, a portly gentleman who obligingly tipped his hat to them but whose eyes lingered too long on both of their faces. Beside her Erik shifted, unconsciously glancing over his shoulder at the man before raising a hand to his face.

"Yes, sooner rather than later," he echoed shakily, appeased when the man's behaviour or gait did not alter. He did not even look back at them. Nodding to himself, Erik turned his attention back to his wife, who seemed to hold herself higher in the light of their outing. Curiously, he studied her, noting her half-veiled eyes, the slight curve of the corner of her lips and the way she welcomed every breeze as though it were an embrace.

He knew she would not be content to live in the shadows anymore.

"What say you, Christine? Shall we travel to your homeland to hear the birds you spoke of?"

Stopping in her stride, she peered up at him with an expression of unconstrained delight. "Oh! Do you truly mean it?" she exclaimed happily, to which he nodded, finding her mood almost infectious. "You do not realise how much this means to me, Erik. Thank you." Moving her head closer to his arm, she then whispered, "If we were not in public, I would not hesitate to kiss you."

His heart thudded at this and was suddenly overcome by shyness at her brazen conduct. Proud as he was to have her on his arm, walking amongst the living, he would not wish for any public display of affection beyond that. Her beautiful kisses, her kind touches and every intimate moment they shared would remain as such. The prying eyes of strangers would not be privy to even the most modest displays of their affection—it would be for them alone.

"Are you not at all worried?" he asked her then, glancing at her from under the wide rim of his hat. "Your career will have to be built up again almost from the bottom, and our livelihood shall dwindle in the meantime. I have a substantial amount for us both to live upon, but there will come a time when employment must be sought. It... might be hard to obtain a stable position in some circumstances—" He missed the troubled look his wife threw at him here, for she knew he spoke of the mask, "—but we shall persevere, shall we not?" Beaming with a renewed sense of purpose, a feeling that his life was only just beginning, he squeezed her hand. "You have taught me that."

A smile teased at her lips at his words and she returned the gesture on his fingers. "Do not fear for us, Erik. Think on it as an adventure in our marriage—it will not be easy, nothing ever is, but as you said, we shall persevere. To Sweden, my love, and then the rest of our lives."

o0o

It took all but a few days for the arrangements to be made.

It was a thrilling sensation for Christine, to know that she would soon return to the land in which she had been raised, had laughed and played, had listened to her father's gentle plucking on his violin. On the day of their departure, she sat peacefully on the settee with Erik as she told him more stories of her childhood, a single flower resting between her fingers as she spoke.

"I adored my father's stories," she began, gazing down at the small petals and lightly brushing them against her skin. "I was an... impressionable child, unfortunately, and I soon took to claiming that I could see faeries from our kitchen window. I would sometimes even cry when I wasn't allowed to run outside in the dark and search for them."

Beside her, her husband chuckled, watching her twirl the flower around in the air before sliding it into her hair above her ear. His breath caught at the lovely picture before him, at how bohemian and at ease she appeared at this moment. An image came to mind of his wife walking barefoot across a field, her hair and dress billowing behind her in a warm breeze as her hand trailed across the tops of the blades of grass. Her laughter would carry upon the wind like music and she would suddenly stop to look over her shoulder at him, a loving smile on her lips and a fondness to her eyes. This was how he wished to see her; happy and utterly free.

Unable to resist, he leaned forward until his head was nestled between her shoulder and neck, his hand reached up to feel the ends of her braided hair intertwine with the long stretches of thin ribbon that had tied it.

"I cannot imagine he was very pleased," he commented, tilting his chin up to catch her eye.

Biting back a smile, she shook her head and held him close. "No, he wasn't." He felt her sigh under his touch and when he next looked up, he was startled to see how her lip had begun to tremble.

"Christine?" Sitting up, he traced her cheeks and jaw with his fingertips, his eyes desperately searching her face to understand the sudden change that had come over her. "What is it? What is wrong?"

Bowing her head, she captured his flapping hands and drew them to her lap. "I miss him, Erik. I miss Mamma and my real mother and..." She looked up, her expression one of hope. "I think being back in Sweden will help me be closer to them."

And in her heart, she truly believed it. Deep inside herself, there was a child she had locked away, a version of her younger self she had forgotten in recent years. That same child was now emerging into the sun and with every mention of Sweden, she could feel her soul lightening.

This would be a fresh start for her, for both of them, and she was not about to waste this opportunity to try to integrate Erik into society... into her family. He knew all too well the burdens of being an unwanted outcast, but Christine was determined to show him that cruelty did not run in the blood of every person who walked this earth. And if he would let her, she would adore him, dote on him and persuade him to make something of himself. She had wept upon thinking how much of his life had been lost by having driven him into the shadows and how his talents still continued to go unnoticed and untapped. Only days before, he had indirectly voiced these worries about their future and she vowed that their new life would be a full one.

This was their chance to remedy their hardships and to build their careers one step at a time, and they would do so together.

If Christine regretted one thing about their impromptu arrangement, however, it was that she was not given a suitable amount of time in which to say her farewells to her friends. Their decision to move would surely be an indefinite one, at least for the foreseeable future, and Christine did not wish to leave them so coldly. As soon as their plans had been laid out several days ago, she had sent a letter to each of the Girys, expressing her gratitude and her love for the women, and vowing that she would return for Meg's nuptials.

Christine smiled at this. From the first moment they had met, Meg had been a friendly, warm, but rather outspoken companion to her. She admired the dancer for her excelling talents and her ability to speak her mind openly, despite the mindful looks she would often garner. But Meg had a stout heart and a wonderful nature, and she had taken to Christine quickly. Her mother also held a similar attitude and under their guidance and friendship, Christine had banished all her worries over transitioning into this society. When with them, she no longer felt like a stranger.

"Thinking happy thoughts, my wife?" Erik said suddenly, pulling her out of her reverie. His fingertip gently tapped the crease at the corner of her mouth he was so fond of, causing her to look down at him.

"Very happy thoughts, my husband," she concurred, bending down to kiss him.

His hand came to cup the back of her head shyly, anchoring her to him and deepening their kiss as she laid her palm across his heart. This quiet intimacy, he concluded, would never fail to render him pliable and helpless to her every whim. He wondered how that revered tenderness could make a man want for everything and nothing all at once. The skin of her fingers brushed against the bare skin of his jaw and Erik shuddered, never wanting to forget the sensation, never wanting to be without her touch.

"You do not regret our marriage?" he found himself asking her then, staring up into those comely eyes.

Leaning away from him, she considered his question, her hand slowly slipping from his chest as she turned her head to the side. "Do you?"

It was not an affirmation, but nor was it a denial and Erik sat up quickly, his eyes turned to the floor as his mind whirled around the meaning behind her answer. Peering over his shoulder, he saw that she was still not looking at him and that her head was now resting upon her hand on the edge of the settee. Was this the ugly side to marriage, he wondered? In his dreams, in his fantasies, he had never thought of it to be anything but a splendid union, but as he drank in the suddenly cold nature of his wife, he swiftly began to realise his thoughts had been not been grounded.

"How could you ask me something like that?" he rasped, startled when she immediately retaliated by asking him the very same question.

"We must be strong now, Erik," she told him firmly, finally looking at him. "We cannot start doubting ourselves or we shall have no cause to move forward together. Do you understand what I am saying?"

The muscles in his jaw visibly moved and Christine shifted closer to him, leaning forward with the intention of laying her hand upon his forearm. In his peripheral vision, he saw her approach, but before she could touch him, he coyly brought his arm further from her reach. Having not expected him to shy from her, she did not alter her hand's position from the air for a few moments. His action had not been aggressive, but it had been hurtful and slowly she curled her fingers into her palm, lowering it to her lap as she too stared at the floor.

"Why do you not answer directly?" was all he could whisper, loathing himself for not accepting her touch but not allowing the dark thoughts of his mind to disperse.

Exasperated, Christine pressed her face into her palms and breathed deeply; an argument was the very last thing she wanted to provoke from him. "I cannot continue to give you the same reassurances, Erik," she told him softly, hoping the sound of her voice would be enough to draw him out of his uncertainties. "It is different from before, we are married now; we are bound. Can you not put your faith and your trust in us? Can you not _believe_ in us?"

"I..." His fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides. "I do not know. I... I cannot help—"

"I know," she quickly said, meeting his eye with loving acceptance. "But _please_... try. I want there to be a day when you do not question my affection; that you can look into my eyes and not doubt what you see there." When he said nothing, she shifted even closer, touching her fingers to his jaw and turning his head around to her. Feeling more courageous now that he did not attempt to shield himself from her, she took both of his cheeks in her hands and brought their faces close to each other.

"You know I love you," she said, not relinquishing her hold on him, even as his fingers crept up to loosely curl around her wrists.

His eyes closed, lost to the undeniable comfort her presence provided him as he focused his mind on the fast pace of her breaths and the way her skin felt against his. Tightening his grip slightly, he nodded and opened his eyes only to see her smiling sadly at him. Tilting his face, he pressed his lips in worship upon her brow before pressing them against her temple.

With a long sigh, he withdrew from her and rose to his feet. His gaze landed on the adjacent windows and noted that there would only be an hour or so of daylight left. Their train would not arrive at the station for another two, but by then darkness would have covered Paris in shadow. He found it curious that spring should be around the corner but most of their days should be shrouded in blackness.

"I must return to the Opéra one last time," he murmured, folding his hands behind his back.

"So soon?" Christine also rose to her feet and began to walk over to him. He must have sensed her approach, but did not indicate having done so. Resisting the urge to touch his shoulder, lest she scare him, she cautiously rested her head against his arm. "It is still early in the afternoon. Will you not stay?"

"I must retrieve the last of my belongings," was his reply. "The Daroga shall help me, fret not. I shall arrive on time." Here, he glanced down at her, tilting her chin up with a strong finger. "You know what you are to do?"

Yes, she knew. At her own discretion, she would travel to the station alone and board their compartment—he would be there, already waiting for her, he had vowed. She had smiled at this when he told her and she could not help her smile now. When she nodded her acknowledgement, he released her and reached for his mask, which had been laying inconspicuously on the floor.

"Your ticket is atop your luggage by the door," he informed her as he slipped the horrid thing onto his face.

Christine fell silent as he gathered his hat, scarf and cloak and watched as his figure became buried beneath the layers. Stepping towards her afterwards, he smiled, earning him a small one in return. Wrapping her fingers within the folds of his cloak, she pulled him to her, her pulse racing as he bent down to trace the growing blush on her cheek with his lips.

"Soon we shall be free," she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut as he moved his mouth to hers in a swift and chaste kiss.

"I shall meet you on the train."

A chill ran through her as he left and with her arms wrapped around herself, she walked towards the window. The sky above was drawing clouds over the city and she wondered if she would be caught in the rain when she left. In a short while, they would be lighting the gaslights and the streets would be paved once again in a hazy, romantic glow. Closing her eyes, she listened to the drone of carriages, the clear tones of hooves hitting the roads, the murmur of men and women returning to their homes. She recalled the smell of pasties on her afternoon walks, the taste of the ocean at the markets... These were the things she would miss about Paris, not memories of a time gone by, but the city as it was, as it would always be.

"Never change," she whispered in secret before turning from the window and clearing her head.

Passing her luggage on her way upstairs, she noted that her ticket was indeed on the top before she quickly surveyed the rest of her cases. Everything seemed to be in order, but one last search around the house would not hinder her.

As she entered her room, she glanced about at the surroundings that had been a home to her for the past two months. Promises had been made, certainties exchanged, vows of adoration given and acts of love shown... This room had experienced a life's worth in a small amount of time.

Smiling faintly, she walked along the edges, checking that everything had been cleared properly. Satisfied, she then turned to her bed and knelt beside it, peeling back the cover draping near to the floor. There, hidden almost completely by the shadows, was a box—a box she had not thought on in the most recent years. It had been a blind chance, a stroke of luck that it was still laying beneath the bed and had not been moved or even thrown out. Biting her lip, she stretched her arm across to it and managed to drag it over to her and into the light.

The dust that had accumulated over time and had covered the object mercilessly tickled her nose. A sneeze or two left her mouth as she wiped the wood clean and gazed down at the small hand-painted scene that decorated the middle of the lid. Her fingers ran across the faded painting, remembering the day that her father had created it.

" _What is that_ , _Papa_? _Is that for me_?" she had asked him, eagerly reaching towards the wet paint with grubby fingers.

Her father had chuckled melodically and gently kept her at bay. " _Yes_ , _Christine_. _For you_. _If you do not want to forget something, you can put it in the box and keep the memory forever_."

" _Oh_ ," she said in mock understanding. " _Papa_... _How do the memories stay in the box_?"

She hesitated now before opening it, and quickly snatched the hefty weight of it up into her arms and carried it down the hall. Her otherwise enthusiastic pace slowed, however, when she reached her guardian's old room, the floorboards creaking beneath her as she decided whether to enter or walk away. Summoning the courage to quieten her quaking heart, she slowly opened the door, immediately feeling her body shiver upon entering.

The room was still and quiet, with only the sound of her breathing to remind her that she was not in a tormenting purgatory. She stood as unmoving as carved stone, like a statue overlooking the graves of the departed—a guardian of the dead, ever constant, ever worshipping. Despite the eerie atmosphere, she smiled, committing the chamber to memory before going to sit on the stripped bed. She placed the box next to her and turned to it, briefly reminded of how she had sat in this very spot and had held Mamma Valérius' frail hand.

Lifting the lid truly felt like she had opened the door to the forgotten corners of her mind. The objects in the box were representations of her past, of who she used to be, and she felt her chest tighten as she explored its contents. Lying on the top was a framed photograph; a beautiful woman sat in her wedding dress and a man, tall and bearded, stood proudly by her side, his hand resting on her shoulder. The faces of her mother and father looked up at her and she lovingly traced every one of their features with her fingertip before clutching the portrait to her breast.

Peering down into the box, she felt a rush of old memories come flooding back to her in the form of a book of short stories, torn sheet music, a necklace that had belonged to her mother, a few strings that she remembered had broken off her father's violin one day, the obituary from just after his death... and a red scarf.

Lowering the photograph to the box, she exchanged it for the long piece of material, holding it up in the light as she studied it closely. Under her touch, she noted that it had become slightly rough. The ravages of time had not left this untouched, it seemed. She held it close to her neck as she thought of its significance, of how a young boy, eager to impress, had chased it along the briny sands after the wind had stolen it out of her hands.

 _Raoul._ Her eyes closed. _Dear Raoul_. How cruel she had been to him. She had not even had the heart to send him a letter to tell him of her departure from France. Was she so thoughtless as to leave him, her childhood friend, without a last kind word? Laying the scarf back into the box and closing it, she nodded her head at her sudden decision. There was still time; a letter could surely be written and sent in the brief time she had remaining.

o0o

The sound of her hired brougham rolling through the streets was a comfort to her otherwise quiet journey to the station. A fog had begun to gather near her feet as she had helped the driver to load her luggage when she had stopped suddenly, wrapping her jacket closer to her body as she peered about her. In truth, she had thought it silly to be affected so by the cold air, but the fog now prohibited her from seeing much beyond the shape of the white horses in front of her and the occasional figure breaking their way through the grey mist.

She fiddled with the reticule in her lap, occasionally opening it up to rummage through until she felt the familiar shape of her ticket against her glove. No matter how many times she told herself not to worry, she could not help but shake the feeling that she had forgotten something. It was nonsense, of course; she had succeeded in posting her letter, had packed her memory box away amongst her belongings and had double-checked everything before she had locked the door behind her. Perhaps it was sentimentality that had her carry the key with her now, but its presence made her feel content.

This evening had begun as a quiet one, but as she neared the Gare-du-Nord, the murmur of the crowds once again filtered in through her ears and she took comfort in the sound. By this time, the fog had begun to disperse and Christine was able to see several people through the brightly lit windows of the surrounding cafés. Ignorance was indeed a delightful thing.

The crowds did not thin as the brougham stopped outside the station, and Christine had to awkwardly side step several parties, whose bulky luggage managed to clear a large path for them. Tightening her grip on her relatively small cases, she took a deep breath and set off through the station, wincing whenever she accidentally brushed arms with another bystander. A quick glance up at the clock outside had indicated that she had arrived with time to spare, but she still hurried to the platform, wanting nothing more than to stand alone.

A gulp of air upon breaking through the last of the crowds proved more hazardous than relieving, however. As she stood before the wide, open platforms, she craned her head and saw great clouds of smoke propelling upwards from the train, rising until they reached the glass panels on the roof. The smell was quite overwhelming, but she soldiered on, determined to enter their compartment before she inhaled more than was necessary.

The sound of her boots was lost to her as she walked along the platform, shifting one suitcase to her other hand so that she could easily reach for the side door. A glimpse at her husband was all she needed before she saw to her luggage. Wrapping her fingers around the door, she pulled. She froze.

The compartment was empty.

Her hand dropped to her side as she peered around her at the throng of people. Briefly, she wondered if he was simply in a disguise she did not recognise, to avoid suspicion. But as the seconds passed, she began to grow more anxious, so much so that she closed the side door and stepped back to the other side of the platform. They had foolishly not planned what to do if one of them was detained—it had not crossed her mind that Erik should run late, it did not seem possible.

Several times, she almost returned to the compartment, believing that perhaps she had arrived a moment too soon, or that he was simply waiting on the other side. She knew her husband better than that, however. She knew that had he already arrived, he would have made his presence known to her.

Holding her cases in front of her legs, she rubbed her thumb along the thick handle as she raised herself up onto her toes so that she might see above the tops of heads. Alas, there was still no sign of her husband. The minutes began to accumulate and Christine felt her heart beating in time with every tick of the clock.

What would he have wanted her to do in this circumstance? Board the train and continue their journey alone, waiting patiently for him to at last join her? It was a daunting possibility, but a thrilling one as well, and had it not been for the dangers hanging over their heads at present, she would have truly considered travelling alone. However, she could not ignore the alternative, more devastating possibilities that had begun to take over her sensibilities.

A sharp whistle and a man's voice broke through her worrying and she glanced up again to see the platform clearing and the train beginning to move. Wistfully, she watched it creep along the tracks and away from her, the steadily increasing churn of the wheels fuelling her steps in the opposite direction.

If their roles had been reversed, Erik would not have thought twice. The compartment would have remained empty and he would have risked his safety to find her whereabouts. Why should she not do the same now?


	39. Chapter 39

**A/N: I'm so sorry for the late update! University got the better of me, but here's an extra long chapter to make up for it. Enjoy.**

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Although the early night had fallen, the drapes in Raoul's bedchamber remained open. The lit candelabra shivered as the cool air from one window entered the room, but Raoul felt no such chill upon his skin. With his head resting against the side of the alcove, he sat stiffly on the window seat, his arm resting on one propped up leg. He looked dully out of the window and then at the translucent image of his reflection in the glass, whose eyes still showed the tell-tale signs of his despair. Without close inspection, Raoul knew that though his body had long ceased its convulsing, his eyes would be bloodshot for a while longer.

He cursed his frailty, even as he looked down to stare at the object that had stirred such a reaction from him. In his lap lay a letter. It was crumpled slightly on one side; his grip having tightened as he first read the words that now played in his mind like the notes of a barrel organ. Despite his fear of another onslaught of tears, he picked the paper up again and focused not on the words, but on the hand in which it was written. Such delicately feminine precision, he thought as he brought the sheet to his face and inhaled deeply. It even carried her scent.

Lowering it to his lap once more, he braced himself to re-read every painful word, not wanting to forget any of it.

 _My dearest Raoul_ ,

 _Under different circumstances_ , _I could not allow myself to part with you so suddenly_ , _but it cannot be helped_ , _for you see_ , _I am leaving Paris today_. _I should have considered your reaction_ , _your feelings, more carefully_. _No doubt this letter will bring you pain as there is nothing that can come of it_. _I fear you will see this as an empty farewell_ , _but please know it is much more than that_. _I wish we could have parted more fondly_ , _but alas this letter is all I can allow myself to give you_.

 _Oh_ , _Raoul_ , _I do not know how to express the magnitude of comfort your presence in my life has brought me_. _Seeing you in my dressing room again after so many years apart made me feel like a young girl again. In your eyes, I saw myself as the same child who had once laughed bashfully at your every joke, and I dare say you saw yourself as the same young boy who heroically saved my scarf, and my heart, from ruin. You brought my childhood back to me, Raoul, and with it, memories of a simpler time, of my father and his violin and his story-telling. I cherish those memories and I thank you for bringing them back to me._

 _I also cherish the stolen moments we shared in the Opéra. Even as my life seemed so troubled and my soul was dark and heavy with the burden of carrying_ his _love, you were still able to make me smile. Do you remember our walks around the building, in the courtyard and up in the rafters? It seemed like an adventure, a dream worth holding onto, did it not? My life now is still worth holding onto, as is my future, but I cannot contemplate one in Paris. It is not to be. I am taking a much different path to the one I had thought I would, but I do not regret it._

 _I do not only carry_ his _love with me now, but yours too, dear Raoul, unburdened, but treasured. I will be happy in my new life away from Paris, and I want, with all my being, that you will be happy too. Your loyalty and bravery are merits that cannot go unseen by all but myself. You must promise me to make something of your life, as I am doing now. You must promise to live a full life, as you had once hoped for me._

 _Although I will not remain in Paris_ , _I hope that we will meet again in happier circumstances_. _I wish it with all my heart_.

 _I remain now, and always, your Little Lotte_

Closing his eyes, Raoul crushed the letter to his chest and groaned in agony. His fingers clenched and twisted the flimsy paper in his grip, wondering if he should tear it up. After all, what good would it be other than to serve as a torturous reminder of his broken heart?

 _Much more than that_ , the answer echoed at the back of his mind, and Raoul unfolded the letter once more, smoothing it out and studying it. Yes, it represented more than his pain; it told him of Christine's happiness, and he would call himself a cad if he were to be rid himself of it.

"My Little Lotte," he whispered, reading those words again and again. Could it be true? Oh, how he dared to hope that she might still care for him! But she was right, there was nothing that could come of it and that thought alone threatened to make him weep all over again.

From henceforth, every day he would hope as she did that they would meet again. In his heart, he knew that such a meeting would occur, and he did not care how long he had to wait until he yet again set eyes on her beautiful face. In the meantime, however, he would not let her valiant image of him go askew. He would continue with his life and not allow his pining for her to interfere with it. He could not, however, bring himself to accept the vow of marrying another. It was unthinkable, but he knew he could not very well put his future on hold because of that.

Philippe had kindly stopped trying to force a match on him, but he knew his sisters would not relent in their search until he was settled down. He also knew that he would not be content with merely sitting around. He needed to make himself useful to someone, be it himself or a stranger.

Peering out of the window again, he looked over the tops of the buildings and yearned for that which was beyond his reach. The sea. He would return to the sea.

Folding the letter into his inner pocket, Raoul smiled with a newfound determination and felt practically giddy as he battled down the stairs to his brother's study to inform him of his intentions. In his high spirits, he only vaguely registered the sound of the front door closing, casting a distracted eye towards it, before he entered the study.

"Philippe, I have news!" he exclaimed as he walked over to the window, half-heartedly parting the drape to glance outside. Not looking long enough to see anything in the darkness, he lowered it again and turned to face his brother. "Who was that who just left?"

As soon as Raoul focused on him, however, a sudden feeling of dread plummeted to his stomach. Hunched over his desk, Philippe sat with his head in his hands, his fingers rolling monotonous circles into his forehead. The longer he remained without answering, the more Raoul began to grow nervous. Pushing himself away from the window, he came to stand on the opposite side of the desk, staring down at his brother in concern.

"Philippe," he tried again, the worry in his voice evident from the tremble in his words. "Who was that?"

Lowering his hands to the desk, Philippe looked at him with sorrowful eyes. "Inspector Allard. Raoul, I also have some news to share."

"What is it?" he asked after a pause. "What did he want?"

Staring down at the wooden flooring, Philippe leaned back in his chair, listening to the slight creak his weight caused it to make. When he finally glanced back up at Raoul, he knew it would not do to keep him sheltered as he had done before. "I have been told that an officer disappeared some weeks ago whilst combing the cellars below the Opéra," he said, watching as Raoul formed an expression that surely meant that his mind was hard at work, trying to deduce what this information meant. "I must explain that all the men who were lost down there were eventually recovered, in one state or another. Despite suspicions, foul play was never indicted. After the most recent disappearance, however, they were inclined to believe otherwise. Small search parties were sent out immediately to find the lad, but to no avail, and to this day he is still missing, believed dead."

With a deflated sigh, Raoul perched himself on the edge of his brother's desk and frowned, a shake of his head coming as rapidly as his words. "If so many men became lost and trapped in that labyrinth, then why are they only now... Oh!" he then grumbled. "I do not even know why I am listening to this! I am sorry for the loss of that officer; do not mistake my evasiveness for a lack of compassion, brother, but I fail to see why the inspector came to you in the first place. You have called off the search, have you not?"

"Yes, but..." Philippe leaned back in his chair and wished, for the first time in his droll life, that he was someone else. "Raoul, do you remember that Persian fellow, the one you told me first led you below the Opéra and who has been difficult to track ever since?"

He looked over his shoulder quizzically, suddenly intrigued by his brother's form of questioning. "How could I forget?" he answered with a quirk of his eyebrow.

Philippe's face remained unmoving for several moments before he finally opened his mouth and replied, "He was spotted not two hours ago entering the side passageway in the Rue Scribe."

At first, Raoul was not certain he had heard him correctly. His lips parted, relentless questions hanging on the tip of his tongue, but no sound came forth. "Why would...?" he murmured to himself, the crease between his brow deepening as his mind began to painfully connect all that had happened. Christine's ring, her imminent departure… It could not be, he reasoned! Swallowing thickly and with a desperate anxiety now pulsing through his body, he asked, " _H-He_ … is still alive?"

Philippe nodded solemnly, his gaze downcast. "I was informed they have a chance to capture him tonight."

"No, this... this cannot be true." His head was spinning now, just as his heart thumped and his vision swam. "She would not lie to me. She wouldn't…" But she had, and he had been bewitched by her lies. Oh, he felt himself such a fool, though there was very little to be done of it. The horrid truth was out now.

As he sat contemplating this, he felt his hand unconsciously creep up towards the lining in his jacket and towards Christine's letter. The subtle crinkle of paper rang in his ears with more clarity than a hundred church bells ever could have. "Do you realise what you have done, Philippe, by not calling them off?"

"What _I_ have done?" he asked in disbelief over his brother's words. "Raoul, I think you overestimate just how much influence I have over the law. There was nothing I could have done. What has you so rattled?"

"Damn," he grumbled, running a hand through his hair as he pushed himself to his feet and faced Philippe. "Listen to me," he began slowly, submitting himself to tell the truth. "If all this is true, then by allowing this to happen you will be ruining the chance at a woman's happiness."

That was the very last thing Philippe had expected to hear and he almost laughed at the absurdity of it. But as he continued to stare at his brother's stern face, he realised the significance of such a statement. "What do you mean?" he hesitantly asked.

Lowering his head as if it had grown heavy with the unspoken burden, Raoul turned and spoke to the floor. "Christine is in… love with him," he finally admitted aloud, both to himself and to Philippe. "She told me so in person," he continued quietly, removing the piece of crumpled paper from his jacket and holding it up with quivering fingers. "And if her letter is anything to go by, Philippe, then she was planning to leave with him tonight."

His stomach churned at the very idea, but he valiantly pushed all feeling of ill-will aside in the face of Christine's happiness. If this was her choice then so be it, but he would not stand by and allow that happiness to be taken from her, not while he was able to act before it was too late, not while his love for her still coursed in his veins.

Stuffing the letter back into his pocket without a care to its handling, Raoul raised his chin in defiance and swallowed his pride once and for all. This was not a time for waiting for someone else to solve his problems for him. "If you will not call them off then I will do it myself," he concluded, surprised at the amount of resolve in his own voice.

Phillipe, however, did not know whether to feel more fascinated or disgusted over this strange behaviour of Raoul's. Rising to his feet, he leaned forward against his desk, his fingertips poised roughly against the wood and his eyes steely with a lack of understanding. "You idiot boy!" he cried, very nearly outraged as he saw his brother's mouth twitch upwards. "Why would you do this? Do you not remember what he did to you? You bore his mark around your neck for weeks! And now you would aid him, the same man you once sought to vanquish? Bah!" He threw his hand in the air in vexation and shook his head before rounding the desk to face his brother. "You will get yourself killed, and for what? A deranged lunatic!"

" _No_ ," Raoul snapped, carefully taking a step away from Philippe and his fiery eyes. "I do this for Christine's sake and _only_ her sake. If I think about it too much, I will surely be sick, but nevertheless, I _will_ do it."

"Raoul!" he called out as his brother began to move towards the door, his hands twitching to reach out to him. When he momentarily stopped in his tracks, Philippe groaned wearily, suddenly feeling like a man twice his age. "I am thinking only of your safety, Raoul," he whispered desperately. "Why do you not listen to me? If you leave, I shall have no alternative than to go after you myself!"

For several seconds, all that could be heard was the ticking of the grandfather clock that stood adjacent to them in the study. And then, "Empty words," Raoul whispered back, retreating once again towards the door. "It is all you speak."

"Raoul, come back! Raoul!"

But it was too late. The Vicomte had already sprinted away from the chateau and into the night, his brother's wailing cries following him through the darkness.

Unfazed, Raoul soldiered on down the pavement, feebly pulling his coat closer to his body to fight away the cold air. Swiftly hailing a hansom, Raoul instructed the driver to take him to the Opera House. Before he stepped into the compartment, however, he paused, turning his head towards the lights of his home in the distance and to the faint outline of his brother in the open doorway.

"Forgive me, Philippe," he murmured under his breath before climbing in and setting off down the street.

His body moved from side to side under the uneven turning of the wheels and Raoul held a hand to his stomach in fear of its contents resurfacing at this inopportune moment. Glancing out, he saw groups of people enjoying themselves, laughing and drinking as merry music resonated around them—and Raoul had never envied them more.

When he arrived at the Opéra, however, he was quick to spot two armed officers standing outside the gate on the Rue Scribe. He waited patiently, hidden by carriages and darkness, attempting to overhear any part of their conversation that he could. Although they spoke quietly, and he could not risk getting too close to them, Raoul was quick to discover that the two officers—whose names he soon learned to be Beaufort and Moreau—were growing impatient of waiting for their reinforcements to arrive. After several minutes of arguing, Moreau—the officer with greater seniority over the other—acquiesced to the younger's request to go ahead of the others and venture into the Opéra before they arrived. It was poor show of tact, but Raoul could not allow that to bother him as he took this as his opportunity to follow them.

The descent underground was as daunting as it had been previously, only this time, Raoul was acutely aware that he had no one to guide him should he take a wrong step in the darkness. He stayed within a safe distance of the two officers, however, never allowing the glow of their lantern to escape his line of sight. But all the while, he hoped dearly that the reports that his brother had told him had been false, that Christine had not been lying to him and that _he_ was not alive.

He did not know how much time had passed when he noticed the lantern suddenly being placed down upon the ground. Stopping where he was, Raoul squinted and reasoned that they had finally reached their horrid destination. The creak of a door rang out and Raoul saw a thin sliver of light enter the passageway from where the two officers stood.

This was the moment of truth, he realised and, from the shadows, he watched the scene unfold.

It was not so much a cautious attack as a rampant ambush; the two officers lurked at the exit for a moment or two, whispers passing between them, before they crept out into the open, immediately making their presence known. Now out of his sight, Raoul could do nothing but listen intently as he contemplated his next move.

A loud clatter echoed first—a box, or perhaps a chest, falling to the ground—and Moreau's commanding voice, reigning through the thick tension like a bullet, soon followed. Here, Raoul's hands began to tremble. In the back of his mind, he could remember how so many people had been fooled and outwitted by the Phantom's mastery in illusion and he could not stop himself from thinking... what chance did two officers have against that deceptive craft? Under his breath, he murmured a prayer for every man in that room as he finally began to edge closer to the opening.

The growing commotion within became apparent when he peered around the corner and saw a cacophony of movement, orchestrated by the flurry of cloaks. Whoever made the first rebellious strike, Raoul did not know, but there was nothing that could stop the scramble of limbs now. Moreau, he saw, was caught in a struggle with another man and it took him several seconds for his face to register in Raoul's mind. Khan, he thought, miserably accepting the answer to the question that had plagued him for many months— _This_ was where the man's loyalties lay.

Continuing to watch unseen, Raoul noted that both men were unarmed and were instead using their fists and feet. To his relief, they appeared to be quite evenly matched in strength, but he was not able to dwell on that thought for long. Scanning the rest of the room, his eyes soon fell upon the young Beaufort, whose gun had been pulled from his waist and was now situated, precariously, in his hand. He was pointing it at something, or rather, someone. Raoul released a shaky breath as he finally drank in the sight of the man that had haunted his dreams.

The Opera Ghost lived, his mind screamed at him as he stared, open-mouthed, palpitating at the vision before him. Christine had indeed lied to him, every word from her lips untrue, and he had willingly believed her… and yet, despite of this betrayal, he could not bring himself to hate her, or even condemn her decision to deceive him. He was as much as in love with her as he had ever been, and he would not deviate from his own decision to protect her.

Without another thought, he left the passageway and stepped into the open.

There was no other priority as deeply rooted in his soul as his want to protect the woman he loved, and so, as he began to run towards Beaufort, he realised his advantage in remaining unseen until now.

The young gendarme was taken by surprise as Raoul tackled him to the ground, but in the rush of adrenaline that had been pumping through the bodies of both men, the agitated nerves in Beaufort's hand had triggered the gun to go off and the ricocheting sound bounced off the walls as the Opera Ghost's groan followed in syncopation. Out of the corner of his eye, Raoul could see him stumbling away from them, but he knew that the bullet would not have missed him at such a close range.

His attention snapped back to Beaufort, however, as he was pushed away and was met with the sight of him scrambling to his feet. Quick to act, Raoul mirrored his movements, warily standing back from the gendarme as he gripped his gun once more.

Beaufort regarded him curiously for a moment before his head turned to the side in search for the man who had now vanished. When he looked back at the Vicomte, his eyes narrowed, and he held the gun a little higher.

"I know you," he panted accusingly as the sound of Khan's and Moreau's fight filled the space around them. Anxiously, Raoul began to tread backwards away from Beaufort, his hands raised in a surrender, but the gesture did not seem to register in the young man's mind. "You're the Comte's brother," he continued, following him in his retreat, "and you… you attacked me. _Why_?"

Raoul's heel collided with something at that time and he peered down to see that he was now at the bottom of a small flight of steps leading up to an open doorway. Sensing his impending imprisonment, he carefully weighed his options before lifting himself up onto the bottom step.

"I did what I had to," Raoul replied haughtily, ascending two more steps as the officer continued to advance on him.

"Then you are against us, and the law," he concluded as he followed the Vicomte past the threshold of the door.

Only then did Raoul realise his mistake.

The sound of water trickled behind him and by glancing over his shoulder, he saw that he had come to stand on the bank by the lake. He was cornered.

Beyond Beaufort, Raoul spotted Khan and Moreau continuing their fight, but the Phantom was nowhere to be seen. Was this not what he had wanted? Was that man's safety not his biggest concern? Yes, he had succeeded in protecting him and thus Christine, but he had not evaluated the possibility of having a gun pointed in the direction of his head.

"What will you do?" Raoul asked, eyeing the weapon carefully, noting the man's loose grip and the lack of great distance between them. Steadily, he allowed a smirk to come to his face.

Ignoring his question, Beaufort instead asked, "What are you grinning at?"

This only made him smile more as he replied, "I am merely wondering if anyone ever told you to never stand this close to the person at whom you are aiming."

Before Beaufort had a chance to respond, however, Raoul had managed to disarm him, causing him a little pain as he twisted the gun from his grasp and held it tightly within his own fingers. "Now then, what—"

But Raoul was now the one who did not have the chance to respond. Out of all the foolish things he thought Beaufort was capable of, attempting to grab his weapon back from another man's hand, mere seconds after he was disarmed, never crossed his mind. And yet, the impetuous lad still tried to just that.

This frantic jumble of limbs was enough to throw not only Raoul's concentration but also his balance off, and he was left teetering on the edge on the bank, holding fast to the gun.

And then... and then they were falling.

Raoul's heartbeat thudded in his ears a second before the unmerciful water devoured him, his entire body feeling like it was being pierced by a thousand needles. He opened his mouth to gasp for air, his arms and legs thrashing violently against the current, but it was no use, he was too weak. A desperate glance to his right showed Beaufort, also struggling viciously against the victorious water. Although unable to move very far himself, Raoul fought against the current and reached forward towards the drowning man. His fingers stretched until they ached, but he was too far away. With a heart as heavy as his limbs, Raoul watched agonisingly as the man slipped away from him and into the darkness.

Revitalised with a sudden surge of willpower, the Vicomte tried to claw his way upwards. His lungs were soon burning for the air that was denied him and as the surface began to drift farther from his reach, he began to lose all hope.

His mind turned to Christine and he prayed that she would forgive him his failures.

No sooner had his eyelids began to droop, however, than a pair of hands wrapped around his arms and began to pull him from the murky depths. The moment he broke the surface, Raoul gasped and coughed and spluttered, all the while grateful for those hands that guided him towards the shore.

The hard stone beneath his palms was coarse and he had surely scraped it in his attempt to secure himself to this piece of land, but Raoul did not care. What was an inconsequential gash to the skin or a trickle of blood compared to the glorious sensation of air filling his lungs now?

Frailly, he looked over his shoulder and out over the dark lake, its rippling waves a calm shadow of the tempest that had raged beneath them. Regretfully, he scanned the waters for any sign of the fallen gendarme, knowing his searching was futile but not allowing himself to fully accept the truth of the matter.

With a heavy sigh, he turned back around and hunched over himself as a relentless cough shook through his entire body. When it eventually subsided, however, he soon became aware of another figure in front of him. They were also crouched low to the ground, recovering from the aftershock of the lake as the constant sound of water dripping from their clothes beat down around them. Even in his muddled state, it took Raoul only a moment to deduce that this figure was in fact his saviour.

"Monsieur," he rasped, forcing a smile to his lips as he began to raise his head. "How can I ever…"

His words faded into an oblivion, one far darker than the depths of that lake, as his wide eyes met the incredulous stare of the Opera Ghost.

Under the gaze of those lofty black eyes, the Vicomte clutched at his knees in fear, one of his legs unconsciously shifting backwards towards the edge of the shore. As more time passed, however, and the two drenched men merely sat opposite one another, Raoul's fear began to dissipate into confusion. The dreaded Opera Ghost, his enemy, was surely not also his saviour?

Daring questions formed in Raoul's mouth, but before he could voice them, the ghost spoke to him, those smooth tones barely ravaged under the toll of the lake.

"For Christine," he whispered through laboured breathing, his head lolling forward in fatigue.

Taken aback slightly by this, Raoul slumped further to the ground and reflected quietly on his peculiar saviour's words. His life has not been made forfeit that night and it was because of Christine. Erik would also continue to live because of her, and Raoul suddenly realised the gravitas of her presence, of the effect she had unknowingly wielded over them.

"Vicomte," another voice abruptly called, sluggishly pulling Raoul back to the situation at hand. Blearily, he peered up to see the Persian looming above them, agitation blending into every one of his features. "Do you realise the danger you put yourself in? What on earth are you here for?" he asked, his eyes quickly darting towards Erik, who still had not moved or even acknowledged his presence.

With as much strength as he could manage, Raoul looked up at the man before he also chanced a wary glance at Erik, holding his stare as he whispered back, "For Christine."

Pursing his lips, Nadir regarded the two men for a few seconds, not daring to inquire further into the matter. Instead, he simply turned behind him and Raoul followed his gaze curiously. On the other side of the room was Moreau, laying as still as a corpse upon the ground.

A knot formed in Raoul's stomach as he asked, "Is he dead?"

"No," Nadir answered, sounding as relieved as a man could be in similar circumstances. "He is merely unconscious, but will require minor medical treatment when he awakens, I am certain."

Silence then poured down over their heads as every beating heart under that roof fought its way back to a steady rhythm. But then a sound, faint at first, but growing in volume with each passing second, echoed through the surrounding caverns. It was a cry.

Erik snapped to attention.

"Are we to expect all of Paris?" he growled sardonically before directing his line of fire at Raoul, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "How many officers did you follow down here? Are there others waiting to drive me out? I cannot believe that they thought only _two_ would be a sufficient number to stop me."

But Raoul was not listening to the ghost's haughty ravings. No, his attention was placed elsewhere, on the poor man's cries that could still be heard through the walls.

"Vicomte," Nadir murmured, trying to induce an answer from him with much softer tact than his friend. "Please. Tell us."

"I…" he began, watching Erik shakily rise to his feet from out of the corner of his eye. "Only two ventured down, but, from what I could gather, more are coming." Another cry sounded around them, much louder this time, and tears filled Raoul's eyes. "Their attack was premature; they were supposed to wait for reinforcements and—Oh, God," he choked, rising to his feet as another cry reached his ears. "I know that voice, I know that voice! Oh, God, it is not a gendarme!" Turning quickly, Raoul grabbed a hold of Nadir's jacket, forcing the startled man to look at him as he wept. "My brother, it is my brother! You must do something! It is my fault he's here; oh, God, what have I done?"

"What are you talking about?" Nadir exclaimed, attempting to pry the young man from him with little success. "The Comte is here?"

"I…" Raoul hung his head, loosening his grip. "I did not believe that he would truly come after me."

Helplessly, Nadir exchanged an incredulous look with Erik, who did now not seem quite as approachable as he was before. The unhinged stare of those black eyes had never failed to unnerve him in moments like this, and Nadir swiftly turned towards the man looming over them.

"Erik," he began, and despite his gentle tone, Nadir was still rewarded with a rather deadly glare. Not knowing whether he was now shuddering more the dripping of water from the Vicomte's clothes or from having those eyes fixed upon him, Nadir continued regardless. "Erik, you must leave. More men will come for you and now with the arrival of the Comte… Erik, I will see to this, but you must leave."

All that was then heard was the echo of water and Raoul's rapid mumbling, muffled slightly from his hand being pressed to his mouth as he paced. Slowly, however, Erik began to look around him, as if noticing the unconscious man behind them for the very first time, before gazing up at the rock formations that stood guard over his lake.

"Yes," he agreed in an aloof whisper as his feet began to carry him backwards, seemingly of their own accord.

"Erik, _now_ ," Nadir all but ordered, unaffected by the reminder of what words like those had earned him in the past.

Continuing to move in a steady pace away from them, Erik looked at the boat that lightly bobbed at the surface's edge and then craned his neck towards the entrance the gendarmes had found. Whirling around on the spot, he silently calculated his chances through the alternative exits before once more catching Nadir's eye.

The Persian waited for the words that would follow, a berating, a string of insults, one last quip from that silver-tongued mouth… but no words ever came forth. Instead, Nadir watched, confounded, as Erik nodded graciously at him, the gesture lasting an eternity in his heart, before the figure in black turned and disappeared from sight.

Nadir would later ponder over that small motion long into the night, but for the moment, he cleared his mind of such thoughts and focused on the challenge ahead of him.

"I know these passageways well," he told Raoul, who had not ceased his whimpering nor his weeping. "I will retrieve your brother, Vicomte, but you must stay here. If that officer awakens, you must be there to see to him."

Squaring his shoulders, Raoul bit back his uncontrollable cries and breathed deeply. "Very well," he replied shakily, watching as Nadir stepped into the boat, which rocked precariously at the sudden shifting of weight. "What will happen now?" he asked at the same time at the first stroke of the oar through water.

"You were seen by that gendarme," Nadir explained with a weary countenance, glancing back over his shoulder every so often at the young man on the bank. He could not help but notice how vulnerable the Vicomte appeared at that moment, how anxiously he fidgeted about. "Your presence here must have an explanation, however contrary to the truth it is. I am afraid your privacy will disappear in the weeks to follow."

Wrapping his arms around himself, Raoul nodded, as accepting of his fate as a martyr. "It does not matter, not as long as Christine is happy and safe." Closing his eyes to the strangely soothing movement of water, he spoke again, "What will we tell this man, and the others that follow him, Monsieur? I suppose the truth _is_ out of the question."

"Yes," he murmured, just loud enough for the Vicomte to hear. "It is the only way to secure Christine's future… and _his_."

"I suppose we are finally doing what should have been done a long time ago," he cried after Nadir, causing him to peer back at him curiously and shudder involuntarily at his grave words. "We are finally laying the ghost to rest."

o0o

Christine's mind was whirling with worry, her entire body wound tightly like a clock.

Having deposited her belongings back at the house, she had spent very little time there before she began to scour the vacant streets for her husband. As she searched, she pondered on the events that had led them to this moment and how she had never thought to imagine herself in such a role as she found herself fulfilling tonight. A surge of love ran through her at this thought, this want to protect her husband from any harm that may befall him. But no, she reminded herself, lowering her face into her hands as the brougham rolled towards its destination, she could not allow herself to presume the worst.

When her journey came to an end and she stepped out onto the pavement, thanking the driver in the process, Christine felt her heart hammer a thousand warnings against her chest. Standing alone, she gazed up at the Opéra House as the wind blew strands of hair across her cheeks.

It felt as though she were in an induced state, half-drugged and half-lucid, even as her fears swarmed in her mind and powered each step that brought her closer to the building.

Something must have happened, her irrationality screamed at her. It was not like Erik to be anything less than punctual and, even if he had been delayed, he would have found some way of contacting her.

Travelling under the guise of neighbouring shadows, she edged her way along the pavement and through the sparse streets, making her way to the side entrance on the Rue Scribe. She stopped in her tracks, however, when she caught sight of a figure lingering close to the usually locked gate. This man, who paced steadily back and forth and who occasionally glanced down into the dark passageway beyond the gate, was not her husband.

Bracing herself against the cold stone of the nearest building, Christine followed the movements of the man carefully, her suspicions painfully confirmed when a flutter of light showed him to be wearing a uniform. Her breath came in short gasps as her gloved fingers dug into the backs of each hand.

"Let it not be true," she whispered, realising the graveness of the situation and the possibility that her husband was…

Closing her eyes tightly, she staggered backwards a few steps, pressing a hand to her chest as she attempted to soothe her aching soul. If Erik truly was in immediate danger, it would not do to weep in his time of need. Swallowing her trepidations, she raised her chin and turned back to the gate, frowning as she saw that another gendarme had appeared next to it.

For the next few moments, she muddled through the various scenarios that she could anticipate, slowly formulating a plan of action in her head. However, she was so preoccupied on concentrating that she failed to register another's presence, approaching near by from out of the shadows. It was not until a hand appeared in the minimal light and wrapped around her arm that she noticed this intruder. Jumping from her thoughts, she whirled around, pulling her arm free from the stranger's grip, just as the hand once again tried to claim her.

An instinct to flee raced through her body then, a fear that she had been recognised pushing adrenaline to the very tips of her fingers. She had quickly turned on her heel to run when a single word stopped her.

" _Christine_."

The voice was unmistakable.

Spinning around on the spot, she soon came face to face with her husband. Not allowing herself to take in his appearance properly, she wasted no time in frantically dragging him close to her and away from the pavement. When she was certain of their seclusion, she finally released him, stepping back to rest against the wall in breathless elation.

He was alive, her husband was alive!

"Oh, Christine," he murmured, his ragged tone breaking her out of her reverie at once. As he dropped to his knees, Christine unconsciously began to lean towards him, her eyes sweeping over his person for the first time that night. His shirt was loose and crinkled, scuffed in places with dirt and… it appeared that it had been drenched in water.

"Erik," she whispered fearfully. "Are you all right? Are you hurt? Please, you must tell me what happened."

Even in the darkness, the look in his eyes as he raised his head was enough to shatter her. "Ambushed," he grunted, chest heaving. "We were ambushed. Nadir and I… We had little time to prepare and… Merde!" he suddenly cried, his voice raising in volume and despair. "Our lovely plan has failed, my wife, faded from our grasps, and it _was_ lovely, was it not? A home, away from all of this. Oh, but we can never escape it. Never! We were naïve to think that we could."

Falling to her knees in front of him, she hurriedly covered his mouth with her hands, casting large eyes to the right of them to see if they had drawn any unwanted attention. "Erik, Erik, my love, please. You must be quiet. Please. You must be quiet."

A burst of hot breath landed on her palms as his muffled gasp left his mouth. Meeting her worried gaze, he reached up to clutch at her hands, bringing them down from his face to rest between them.

"Now you are to have a fugitive for a husband, Christine," he told her fervently under his breath. "But I did not kill, you must believe your Erik now. I did not shed blood tonight!"

As pleased as she was at this news, Christine could not ignore the nervous energy that was now radiating from him. Squeezing his hands, she sought his eyes, attempting to calm him with the gentle pressure of her fingers against his skin. "Erik—"

"The… The Vicomte was there."

At his unexpected words, Christine paled, her features freezing under the night air. Her body grew rigid and her fingers involuntarily tightened around Erik's hands as a terrible understanding dawned on her. The letter. Her eyes closed to the pain piercing her heart. Was she truly to blame for this ambush? Had her want for innocent sentimentality brought about the unknowing destruction of multiple lives on this night? Her stomach protested at the thought. And then Raoul…

"Erik, I'm so terribly sorry," she cried into his hands. "It is true, I sent Raoul a letter of farewell, but there was nothing in its contents to discern worry or even your whereabouts! Tell me, was Raoul wounded? Does he still live? I must know. I do not think I could bare the guilt if I was the cause of any man's death."

Seeing his wife's distress was more of an awakening than any other stimulant he had taken before. With a whimper, he seized her cheeks and searched her conflicted eyes. His fingers stroked her numb skin and suddenly the toil he had just escaped from seemed insignificant compared to those mounting tears.

"Ssh," he cooed gently, unconsciously rocking them back and forth as her presence began to soothe his frantic energy. "Christine did nothing wrong. _Nothing_ wrong. No man's blood is on your hands, of that Erik can assure you."

Reaching up to cover his hands with her own, she nodded determinedly and with a tremble to her words, she said, "Tell me what transpired."

And he did. In hushed tones, he told her of the two officers' plan, of the Vicomte's unexpected arrival and how their party had managed to escape with mere bruises. Wisely, he avoided her glances and the quickening of her pulse as she learned, in detail, the unfortunate drowning of the young gendarme. But, he chose to keep the knowledge of the Vicomte's near fatality to himself, not wishing to distress her further.

"He was not there to harm me," he added, wistfully staring at the ground as the intrusive sound of a carriage rolled passed them.

Shaking her head in disbelief, Christine struggled to comprehend Raoul's motives and suspected that Erik was not telling her all that he knew. "Why would he risk himself like that?" she asked, almost afraid of the answer she would receive.

Finding her befuddled stare, Erik sighed, his mouth quirking into a strange, but sad smile. "For you, my love," he murmured, running a single finger down the length of her cheek. "Everything was done for you."

Letting out a sob, she wound her arms around him, her thoughts giving way to the dreadful misgivings that had occurred, but more significantly, how wonderful it felt to have him in her embrace again. Her comfort was short-lived, however, when a grunt landed in her ear and she pulled back to see Erik wincing. Following his line of sight downwards, she frowned as she noted the stiff way in which he was holding himself. Her hand barely twitched as it slid down his coat, her eyes narrowing as she fingered a small tear in the fabric by his shoulder. With more hesitation than she realised, she turned her palm upwards, drawing in a shuddering breath as she saw the smear of blood on her skin.

"You're wounded," she mumbled, anguish and rage filling her all at once as a desperate notion for vengeance overtook her body. The want to protect him was unequivocally pulsing throughout her and, were it not for the sight of the dastardly colour on her fingers, nothing would have stopped her from striking down all those in her path until she had found justice for her husband. "We must get you to a doctor," she reasoned, however, as she refocussed her attention on his arm, but was baffled when she was met with a strong exclaim of protest.

"No!" he cried, pulling her fussing hands away from his coat to hold them against his heaving chest. "I can tend to it myself, do not worry for me. There was a struggle," he lied, omitting the fact that the Vicomte had been the other participant and not him. "One of the officers was foolish enough to try to use it against me and amongst the clambering, the trigger was pulled. The bullet missed me, of course, but I was still grazed. If you would just allow me a moment, I can see to it now."

Her eyes shone with worry and she intuitively shielded him with her own body as several bystanders walked past them. Although well hidden by the darkness, Christine would not take the risk. "Erik, we may not even be granted a moment," she told him gently, yet fervently. "Reinforcements have no doubt been called in. They will comb all of Paris for you if something is not done."

The pressure of her hands increased as she felt him sigh. "Nothing can be done," he whispered, bringing his forehead down to tiredly rest upon her own. "It's over…"

"Do not speak like that, please," she said, hating hearing the words of defeat. Never before had she heard them uttered from his own lips and it sent a disturbing chill through her heart. "Erik, listen to me," she began again, finding his eyes in the midst of his melancholy. "You must leave, and soon. I fear they will find you otherwise. You _must_ continue with our plan and leave for Sweden. Tonight, if possible, before they have a chance to patrol the borders."

He opened his mouth to protest, but a flash of vision stopped any disagreements from being voiced. An image took shape before him of his wife, so young and so woeful, clad once again in black as she stood over his grave. So long as he still drew breath, he would not be the cause of such unhappiness. He would live, if but for her.

"What of you?" he finally asked, to which he received an immediate answer, surprising him.

"I will remain here to avoid suspicion," she said simply, turning her head slightly so that their faces were closer together. "I will keep you safe, Erik, you have to trust me."

"I do, I do," he insisted, closing his eyes and squeezing her hands.

Despite her inner turmoil and the looming threat of being discovered, Christine smiled, a mere flicker of hope that faded soon afterwards as she began to consider their options. She recalled every moment of their tentative relationship, every step leading up to this night and wondered briefly, albeit sadly, if they would have been happier, and safer, had she not been content to stay with him, even after he let her go. Now was not the time to dwell on the alternative life that she could never have, however, and she concentrated fiercely on anything in her memories that could help them now. And then, suddenly, she remembered the night before their wedding.

Pulling back from him, she found his eyes once more and nodded, a revitalised sense of confidence building within her. "Mazanderan," she uttered, and at once Erik understood, his mind turning to the body in his lake. He could not help the breathless chuckle that escaped him then, nor could he keep himself from staring at her in a mixture of shock and wonderment.

"History is indeed repeating itself," he whispered back, nodding his agreement as he tried to comprehend the state of her mind and how willing she was to even suggest such a plan.

"I will find the others and tell them," she said, her voice growing firmer even as her eyes grew soft. "Do not risk sending word to us, though," she added, "I fear the consequences should our letters be intercepted."

Erik held no reservations over the change that had occurred in his wife and knew that she was much transformed from the frail and timid creature she had been a mere year ago. He admired her greatly for her courage, her irrepressible spirit and, above all, for being the ever-constant light in his life. "You continue to astonish me," he said without attempting to veil his pride. Running his fingers across her cheek, he gazed at her features, every part of her that shone with undiluted power. "Look how strong you are now, how resilient... You do not even tremble."

"Oh, Erik," she sighed, "that cannot be true… I had such fear within me tonight. I thought I had lost you." Burying her head into the crook of his neck, she breathed him in, releasing a small cry as he released her hands to wrap his arms around her frame. "I love you," she exhaled ardently, pressing her lips softly and shyly to his jaw. "I love you, I love you."

She heard him mirror her words just as his hand moved to land rather heavily on her shoulder, his fingers tiredly toying with her hair. Unable to progress another moment without his touch, she grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him deeply. His mouth quivered, and she could taste his tears on her lips, but she did not care. All that mattered was that he was alive and that she would move the Heavens themselves if it would keep him that way.

"Travel to Sweden," she rasped once she had released him, "and make haste. I will find you there when all this is done."

Erik closed his eyes, wanting nothing more than to be consumed by her, to drown in her caring arms, but the light pressure of her lips on his forehead brought him back to the danger at present. Almost absent-mindedly, he found himself smiling down at her, his fingers reaching up to stroke her rosy cheek again. "How did I ever deserve you?" he wondered hazily, his eyes darting to every part of her face as if tracing it, memorising it.

Saying nothing, she grasped onto that hand for dear life, bringing it to her lips in reverence. Erik watched in silence as she kissed each fingertip before lingering over his upturned palm. "Go now. _Go_ ," she whispered, looking into his eyes with a determination that burned and then at his retreating figure as he hurried away into the darkness.

She could only pray that a brighter future lay in waiting for them.


	40. Chapter 40

A night at the Opéra hardly seemed worth the effort, Raoul thought miserably as he refused to be swept up in the grandeur of the auditorium. It was a beautiful hall filled with beautiful people, but there was nothing he craved more than blissful silence. Distractedly, he looked about him, noting how more than a few eyes had turned away from the stage in favour of admiring their companions. The decadence of this life had once excited him beyond measure, but now he could no longer bear to be in the same room as these aristocrats without fear of suffocating.

The sea was indeed the most preferable and appealing of his options. And yet, he was not able to stop the pang in his heart as he looked at his brother, who was trembling almost as subtly as the footlights that illuminated the woman at which he was gazing. In truth, Sorelli was a wonderful dancer and needed no patron to help guide her career, but Raoul knew that there was nothing on Earth that would ever be able to tear his brother away from her now. He was utterly besotted, and it had taken the Vicomte many weeks to learn just how deeply those affections ran.

As La Sorelli performed a jeté worthy of a bout of raging applause, Raoul's attention was drawn to the stiff way in which the Comte was repositioning his right foot.

He recalled the relief he had felt those two months ago, when the Persian had returned Philippe to him. Raoul had not held back from throwing his arms around his brother's neck as he cursed his stupidity at following him. What he had failed to notice at first, however, was the state of Philippe's leg. Even now, the memory of that bloodied limb still managed to make Raoul wince. It had been caught in one of the Opera Ghost's smaller traps, but the material of the trouser leg had been torn savagely and the blood that had dripped down and clotted on the surrounding skin had made him appear as though he had survived a vicious mauling. Philippe had resurfaced to the world above with numerous fractures, swellings and bruising, but he was _alive_ , and for Raoul, that was reason enough to give thanks.

Although Philippe had insisted on resuming his public appearances, he had only just managed to walk without the need for further assistance. He still relied heavily on his walking stick, now more than ever, but he would be damned if he missed even a single one of Sorelli's performances. For this, Raoul admired him, and he could not deny the positive impact her presence had had on his brother's recovering health.

There was no denying that it had certainly been a gruelling series of weeks following the night below the Opéra, but the Ghost had officially been declared dead, and Raoul was finally able to find the closure he had desperately needed. Philippe had been told the same lies as Moreau had, and after Christine had unfolded her plan to the Persian, arrangements were made to pass off the unfortunate Beaufort as their masked ally. Raoul had initially been disgusted by Christine's part in this, but the more he listened to her, the more he realised that they had few other alternatives. Moreau was informed of Beaufort's reluctance to fight and that he had tried to make his way back through the passages, when he must have become lost in the darkness.

He soon became just another name to Inspector Allard's list of fallen officers.

Raoul felt terribly guilty over helping to weave this lie and had offered to pay for the vigil that was due to be held for the men, as well as for their individual funerals. His money was the very least he could offer their families, even if it could not help to bring their brothers, husbands and fathers back from the grave.

Not a day had passed when Raoul had resisted the urge to run away. Khan had been correct in his assumption that his life would cease to be quiet, and he had been hounded by questions by both reporters and officers. He had refused to attend social gatherings, merely to avoid the unwanted gossip that may arise, and for a long while, he chose to keep to himself, venturing out into the city only when he was called to do so.

He had barely spoken more than two words to Christine either, and he regretted the way things had come to pass between them. The most he had seen of her were fleeting moments between questionings and hearings, but when they had been asked to confirm the identity of the body and Christine had begun to shed tears at the sight, he had taken her in his arms and held her. He knew then that this web of deceit had affected her far more than she had previously led him to believe and it was all he could do to continue holding her, and to whisper words of comfort into her hair.

"She is performing exceedingly well tonight, is she not, brother?"

Philippe's voice broke through Raoul's intensive thoughts and he managed a smile in his direction. "Yes," he said in agreement as the audience began to applaud enthusiastically. "But she performs well every night. You would not be missing anything if you were to stay in bed for a night or two. You know you should be resting, Philippe, not gallivanting about the city until the early hours."

Raoul's lip quirked in amusement as the Comte laughed in response. "You are not my nurse," he chastised playfully, shifting in his seat so that he could peer over the edge of their box and down at his lover below. "Who could think of injuries when the sweet temperance of a beautiful woman is calling to me?"

Dropping his gaze to his lap, Raoul smiled sadly. "A woman's call is not the only one that is worth answering."

Above the pulse of the orchestra, Raoul could hear the gentle lapping of the sea, and when Philippe turned to him, he knew of what he spoke. With his attention now entirely focused on Raoul, Philippe leaned towards him, hand twitching on his wounded knee, aching to reach out.

"Is there nothing I can say that will make you stay?" he asked, releasing a long steady breath as Raoul shook his head. Mirroring his detached smile, he nodded and clasped his shoulder. "Then I wish you well," his smile grew, "but I will miss you."

A softness flickered in Raoul's eyes as he swayed under Philippe's touch. "Likewise, dear brother, but I am certain your life will not be as dull as mine." He turned his attention to the woman pirouetting on the stage, basking in footlights and music. "I have never been very supportive of your choice, Philippe, and I am sorry. I was blind to how happy you are around her."

Philippe followed his gaze briefly before turning back to him. "Thank you," he whispered, feeling a pain in his stomach as he pulled away from his brother. "Thank you."

Days blended into night, blurring the motions of Raoul's life until the moment he would step foot onto a wooden deck and smell the salty sea air again. His focus remained on his forthcoming expedition and the excitement of discovery began to bubble in his blood. Although adamant that his words would do nothing, Philippe remained vigilant and determined to persuade his younger brother not to leave. It was unfortunate then, that the stubbornness Raoul had possessed in childhood had followed him as he progressed into a young man. A fine young man, too.

When the time came for Raoul to begin packing for his voyage, Philippe felt utterly drained of his power. It was overcast outside and as the clouds began to cluster, he sought solace at the bottom of the glass decanter in his study. He would make amends to Raoul and would send him to the

Continent with an elegant celebration, but for now, it was in the Comte's best interest that he allowed each of them their own space.

Even with curtains drawn and a full view of the gathering storm through his windows, Raoul took no notice of it. His attention was fixed on the handling of his clothing and belongings as he sorted and folded and packed to a brisk and cheerful tempo of his own. He had just begun to shift through the papers on his desk when he heard a soft treading of footsteps behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the stoic Charton at the threshold to his chambers and with one last look to the documents below him, Raoul inquired as to what he wanted.

"There is a carriage outside, Monsieur le Vicomte," the butler announced in a monotonous droll. "Your presence has been summoned."

Amused, Raoul leaned back in his chair and surveyed Charton. "And whom, may I ask, is making that request?"

"A lady, Monsieur," he answered without hesitation or awareness of his employer's teasing tone. "She did not give a name, but she is wearing a veil and insisted that…" here, Charton shuffled uncomfortably on the spot, "You come to her."

Understanding sparked in Raoul's mind like a match and he bounded to his feet, thanking Charton as he passed on his way down the stairs. In his haste, he almost forgot to grab his coat and protect himself from the inevitable wind he would face on the street.

Smiling as he closed the front door behind him, he easily spied the carriage in question and began his way towards it.

A gloved hand then appeared within the darkness of the window, its movement slow and precise. It seemed to beckon him forward with every curl of its fingers, and Raoul found that he could not ignore his willingness to follow. He thought it curious that he should hesitate a moment after the carriage door began to open, however, and he wondered if a part of him doubted who he would meet on the other side. But when all that he saw was Christine's radiant grin through the thin gauze of her veil, he did not wait a second longer before entering the carriage.

His body was immediately flooded with warmth, not only from the relief of once again being sheltered from the wind's frightful nip, but also from the pounding of his heart. Within his body, his blood was racing and boiling all at once with eagerness, irritation and anxiety. Christine would not have called on him so secretly without an agenda and he shivered to think on it. It was with no small amount of desperation then that he chose to simply savour this moment of silence between them, locking it away in his mind to recall at a later time, the time he knew was drawing ever closer… the time when he would leave her life, possibly forever, and begin the his next chapter without her.

She removed the veil from her head and placed it beside her. The thoughtful look that passed through her dark eyes grounded him to this inevitable parting and, with a sigh, he leaned back into his seat and regarded her thoughtfully.

"Speak freely if you wish, Christine," he said, sensing her reluctance and watching as she lowered her gaze to her discarded veil.

Her lips pursed, her eyes closing in pained reflection until she raised her chin and shook her head. "I have lied to you for months, Raoul," she said, knowing full well that he was aware of the fact, but needing to free herself of the confession in any case. With a shaky breath, she found his eyes and braced herself for his reply, impatiently tapping one finger against the back of her hand.

Raoul was torn; half of him wished he had the strength to walk away from her, while the other wanted nothing more than to hear those words again, to force her to admit her misgivings until they both wept with sorrow. Surprising even himself, he merely gave a stiff nod and stared at her fidgeting fingers. He wondered if she would have allowed him to reach out and still them with his own.

"A year ago, I would not have hesitated to denounce you for a deceitful woman." His voice was not harsh or cold, but the quality of it seemed lacking in something… an attachment that was always here when he would speak to her. Raoul noted the detachment and hated himself for it, leaning forward to gently touch her hand in remorse. "I insinuated and called you many things in my jealousy. I recoil at the thought of them, but it does not make me forget that I spoke them to you. I will never forget that I dared to speak to you like that. And now… now, I will do just as you said I would. I will ask you… _beg_ you for forgiveness."

"Oh, Raoul." There was something in her voice that mirrored his own, a trembling hint of longing, of a want for everything to return to the way they had been—a pining dream, and nothing more. "You know you have my forgiveness," she whispered, inching forward ever so slightly and twisting their hands so that her fingers were the ones covering his own. "You have been so good—to us, to me… and to Erik. What can I ever do to repay you?"

His chest tightened and began to heave slowly, even as he squeezed her fingers, hoping to anchor himself to her, to communicate in touch what he could not in words. When she sought his eyes once more, he smiled faintly and raised their hands to his face, gently kissing the backs of her knuckles through her gloves. "There is only one thing that I want, Christine. I want for you to be happy." Although he heard her light gasp then, he could have sworn he _felt_ it too, travelling through the very expanse of her body until it tingled against his lips. "When you wrote to me," he began, "did you mean what you said? That I will live on in your heart?"

"Everything in my letter was true, Raoul," she said, and he knew in that moment that she was in earnest. "I meant every word of it. If there was ever a time to believe me, to truly believe in what I say, then it is now."

Untangling her hand from his light grasp was a swift task, but she baffled him when she did not pull back. Instead, the silk of her glove rose to stroke his cheek, tilting his face towards her as she selfishly, but sweetly, kissed his mouth. A short moment later, her fingers slid from his face and she stiffly rested her head on his shoulder. The sound of their lips parting would later haunt Raoul as vigorously as the familiar warmth of her breath.

So as not to disturb this precious scene, he carefully peered down at her, at how she lay against his arm but did not look at him. And with her sigh, he was instantly transported. Before his eyes, he could see their spirited selves, and in his mind, he recalled every stolen kiss she had ever bestowed on him as they hid and ran and explored the secrets of the Opéra together.

"I will always love you, you dear man," she admitted, but what should have sent joy blooming in his heart, only sent a dull ache. "You will make whomever you marry a worthy and wonderful husband."

With a chuckle, he leaned away from her. "No, I am to lead a bachelor's life. I… I plan to return to the sea, Christine. I was packing when you called on me."

A tremor broke through her body, contorting her features horribly. "Then… this really is our last farewell," she mumbled, catching his eye as he looked to her in dreaded bewilderment. "I came here for many reasons, Raoul, but mainly because I wanted to right the wrong I committed against you. Before, I would have left France without saying goodbye to you properly and I know that hurt you as much as it did me." She cast her gaze to her feet. "You see, I am on my way now."

"Christine," he lamented, lowering his face into his hands before glancing at her through cold fingers. "Promise me that you will not regret your decision. I want you to be happy, but… above all else, I want for you to be safe."

"Erik is a good man," she said, watching him as he straightened once more. "He will never betray me—I swear this on my life, Raoul. He is different now, but my love for him was not the cause of this. _He_ was the one who instilled this change and I am so very proud of him for it."

"That may be," he said, attempting to drown out the undeniable sound of affection in her voice, "but it does not change the fact that he has taken the lives of men."

"I know," she agreed quietly, sighing but not shrinking from him or his words. "I cannot explain my devotion to him, but he has promised me that he will not kill again. On that night… he told me that he did not kill, even though he had ample opportunities to do so, and he proved to me just how much he has grown. He did not kill, Raoul," she breathed with a smile. "He did not kill."

Solemnly, he agreed, nodding his head as he readied himself for what he would tell her next. Finding her eyes, he looked at her pensively "He did more than that," he confessed, earning a pull of her eyebrows. "He saved my life."

Words could not describe the conflicting jumble of emotion that passed over Christine's face as Raoul explained to her the details of that night. Guilt clutched at his heart when he thought of his torn loyalties, but the gleam in Christine's eyes pulled him back from those murky depths.

"I have testified that _he_ is the drowned gendarme," Raoul concluded, allowing a shred of bitterness to enter his tone. "I have sworn that Beaufort's cold body is _his_ , and I can do no more. This is my repayment, Christine. I am no longer indebted to him."

Silent tears ran from her eyes, her hand pressed to her heart whilst her other reached for his fingers. Entwining them, she opened her mouth to speak, to shower him with words of her relief and confusion, but when none came, she merely squeezed his hand and nodded.

Raoul returned the sentiment before murmuring, almost to himself, "I am surprised he did not tell you himself."

"As am I," she whispered, staring at the streets outside before wiping her face and reaching behind her body. "I… I almost forgot," she continued, fumbling with something that was obscured from Raoul's line of sight. "I brought you something."

A strange looking parcel then appeared in her hands as she held it out for him to take. Inquisitively, Raoul glanced between the paper covered lump and her face, attempting to draw out any hint of what it might be. When he received no such hint, he took the parcel from her and settled it in his lap for further inspection. He almost felt like a child again, desperately seeking the knowledge that was hidden within a wrapped gift. His fingers rose to tug at the string holding it together, but before he could, Christine laid a hand on his wrist.

"Not here, please," she said softly.

Her withdrawal from him was both solitary and sluggish, and Raoul instantly knew that their time was nearing an end. Manoeuvring their fingers, he scooped her hand up into his and pressed her knuckles to his mouth.

"I wish you luck on your journeys," he told her, lips brushing the silk of her gloves.

Her breath caught. "So do I," she whispered back, leaning forward wildly to capture his own hand with her lips. Her kiss was slow and, like a burning brand to his flesh, he knew the memory of it would never fade.

The wind began to rage around him as he took his place on the street and watched the carriage whisk her away into the fog. His grip on the parcel tightened as his chest did the same, his heart pumping in futile beats against the constricting nature of his loss whilst his feet carried him back inside his home.

In his chambers, he lowered himself to his bed with a deflated sigh, looking about him with a sense of nihilism before he finally looked to the parcel in his grasp. For a while, he debated whether or not to open it, to reveal her parting gift, as though its continued secrecy would help to preserve the moment. Ultimately, he succumbed, the temptation too great for him, and with a single movement, the string released the paper prison.

His hand flew to his mouth to trap a choked sob as he parted the paper and stared down at the object within. Lying there, without pretence or splendour, was a red scarf, and he knew, without a doubt, that it was _the_ red scarf. His fingers ached to hold it once more and he raised it to his face, rubbing his cheek along the aged linen.

"Farewell," he whispered into the material, pressing his worshipping lips to it as his tears fell freely. "Little Lotte."

o0o

Had the handkerchief within her fingers been made of a weaker substance, Christine was certain that her frantic groping would have torn it to shreds—but what other way was there for her to channel her nerves in such a public environment?

Every compartment on the train was taken, as far as she was aware, and she could feel herself becoming flustered under the thick air. Five others sat with her in this particular compartment, each of them minding their own business and paying her no heed. She sat by the window, awaiting the moment the station would come into view and she could fill her lungs with the open air again.

A repetitious tapping of shoes against the seat soon drew Christine away from the landscape, however. Her fingers stilled as she looked to the other side of the compartment and saw a young child throwing and kicking its feet in unrest. The mother—or perhaps, governess—beside the child huffed and whispered to the little girl to behave, with undesired results. Christine watched the interaction between the two with curiosity, even as she revelled in hearing her native tongue spoken so freely once more.

The girl—Ebba—talked excitedly and incoherently to the older woman in response to being chastised. Sunlight parted through the passing greenery and bled onto the child's face as she continued to prattle. Christine continued to watch Ebba with fondness, for she reminded her of herself at that age. The older woman spoke calmly again, trying to tame Ebba's wild limbs and mouth, but to no avail. Sheepishly, she looked at everyone in the compartment in turn, apologies laden in her eyes and silent tongue. It was then that she caught Christine's gaze.

Clouds hid what sunlight remained and the women regarded one another in plain view. The stranger did not speak to her, but Christine offered a smile of comfort, the gesture widening as the former reciprocated with a smile of her own.

For a moment, Christine was able to forget about the anxious tremors in her heart.

Trees flew by the windows and the scenery began to change, to take shape, the landscape melding into rural towns and cities. Rain pelted down on the glass, blurring the world outside, but Christine did not care. Her destination was approaching. It was not long before the train began to slow, and the din of weary passengers rose up like a choir of rejoicing voices. Bundling her jacket and collar close to her perspiring skin, she trundled through the crowd and to her luggage.

It was with that first step onto the platform that Christine took a deep breath, inhaling steam and petrichor as she walked to the end of the platform. The minutes came and went as she waited for the crowds to disperse. Rain continued to fall upon her head and clothing, drenching her to the bone, but still she did not move to seek shelter. She shifted from side to side, alternating between looking around her and readjusting her suitcases in her weakening grasp.

A whistle pierced her ears, soon followed by the steady turning of wheels, and she watched impatiently as the train rolled away from sight. Another minute, and she was alone.

The wind blew several curls out from their pinned arrangement and away from Christine's bonnet, much to her displeasure. They strayed across the wet skin of her cheek as she finally lowered the cases to the ground so that she might handle these strands more thoroughly.

The sight that met her when she raised her eyes stole the very breath from her body.

A figure stood on the opposite end of the platform, cloaked in black and wind and rain. Her heart leapt as she stared at him, and he her, and for an immeasurable amount of time, nothing else seemed to exist beyond that meeting of gazes. He took a single step in her direction and then another and another, until he was all but running. She, too, ran to him, colliding into his body as his arms came about her.

"Oh, my husband," she mumbled into his soaked jacket, her fingers grabbing him nearer and traversing up wet cotton, over the edges of his disguise and through the slick black hair she had missed so dearly.

"Christine." Oh, how many nights had she suffered without hearing that voice! Never again! "You are here, you are here," he cooed, carefully holding her waist and pulling her closer.

"I am here," she whispered back to him, sliding her hands over his shoulders and neck before they came to rest on his cheeks. "I shall never stay away again," and with those final words, she dragged his mouth down to hers. The sensations were overwhelming—his scent infiltrating her at every turn, the taste of rainwater upon his lips—and yet, they were not enough.

Erik's palms glided up and down her back, aching for the layers between them to disappear beneath his touch. Each month that had passed had seemed like an age and he never wanted to be without her again. The thought of never seeing that mouth break into a smile meant for him alone caused his grip to tighten, but even so, in the back of his frantic mind, he recalled their surroundings. There was no great certainty that they would remain alone for much longer.

Reluctantly, he broke away, resting their foreheads together as he swiftly eyed the forgone suitcases in the distance. "We must get you out of this rain, my love," he said before claiming her lips once more. "I would not forgive myself if you were to catch a head cold because of my foolish behaviour."

A smirk rose and fell on her face before she ardently shook her head, pleading only for him to kiss her again. Desperately, he obliged, deepening the kiss as he resisted the desire to sweep that confounded bonnet from her head and bury his hands in those frazzled and lovely curls.

Again, he pulled away from her, words of reason hanging upon his tongue. "Christine—"

"Shh," she sighed, running her lips across his chin and making him shudder. "I have missed you, Erik."

"As have I," he replied, impassioned, guiding her slyly so that she would walk with him towards her luggage. The wilful girl would not move otherwise. "But I fear the rain will not be merciful, Christine. We must go home now."

Had she not been reaching down to grab the handles of her cases at that moment, she would have thrown her arms around him in abandon and laughed like a gleeful child. "Home," she echoed, meeting his eyes and smiling.

The months apart from her husband seemed to vanish in her mind as he held her close, guiding her to the hansom that was waiting for them beyond the entrance to the station. Whatever path they would choose to follow now would be one of their own making. No one would dictate their future or bar them from the same opportunities given to others.

The Opera Ghost was dead, but Erik lived on, and at his wife's side, he felt as though he had the power to move mountains. The heavens had opened up above them and in Christine's soul, she could believe that it was a sign, a blessing for their lives to begin anew.

In rain, they were reborn, and they knew they would not waste this second chance to walk into the daring unknown.

 _Fin_

* * *

 **A/N: After five years and a lot of anxiety, this story is finally complete!**

 **Thank you to all those who have followed this piece through my erratic updates, hiatus and the discontinuing of the story when it was first posted on here several years ago. And thank you to all those who have reviewed and read and enjoyed. I'd also like to say a bigger thank you to AliceHeart247 for being so supportive and encouraging throughout the year and for giving me the confidence to complete this story.**


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